


When Lies Turn into Truth

by ValloryRussups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Harry's time, M/M, Magical Culture, No Bashing, Not Time Travel, Ravenclaw Harry, Slow Burn, Soul Magic, Voyeurism, music is magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 75,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValloryRussups/pseuds/ValloryRussups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever wanted someone so bad it hurts? Gradually, Tom Riddle discovers all the sides to obsessive insanity when he meets his year mate Harry Potter, the protege to Regulus Black, who seems like the right person to help Tom build the world. If only his chosen one wasn't prone to plotting against him as a hobby.</p><p>This is a rewrite and repost of my earlier story titled the same and posted under the pseud ForgottenJuliett.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** don't own Harry Potter or any canon characters. The characters you don't recognize are probably mine as well as the plot.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_**Prologue** _

* * *

Tom Riddle hated rain and snow. It was even worse when the two types of weather combined to make his life hell.

At least, the boy believed that it couldn't be a coincidence his birthday would be _both_ rainy and snowy, and that he couldn't even leave the wretched place he had been forced to call home for ten years now.

It was no secret at the orphanage that on such cold days as this one it was prudent not to bother him. A flock of foolish cowards, they were. Utterly pathetic and ready to do anything to fall into his good graces.

The boy sniffed, lying on his bed, and wrapped himself up in one more blanket. It was thin and didn't really make him feel any warmer than before, but at least its weight soothed him and made the violent trembling go away. He sneered at the pathetic feelings of weakness licking at his stomach.

Harsh winds were blowing through the windows, which didn't protect the inhabitants of the orphanage from the cold and the caprices of weather at all.

Thus, no one was surprised when half the population of the orphanage was brought down by illnesses – mostly a simple cold, but some children also had the hints of developing pneumonia and antritis. Fortunately, Tom only had a slight fever and a running nose – nothing more.

To the devastation of the rest. They would love to see him down, and crush him in his moment of weakness, like the vultures they were.

From his early childhood Tom had found that he was special. No one was like him. The other children didn't have his special talents and were inferior to him in all ways.

He could make things move without touching them. He could make animals do what he wanted without training them. He could make bad things happen to people who were mean to him.

His revenge – always rightful, of course, he never made any mistakes – was frightening and the mere idea of it forced others to treat him with the respect he deserved, afraid to make a sound out of line.

Whatever he wanted – he got it. No one dared to disobey or take back the things he had robbed them of. The chilling to the bones fear they held prevented them from talking against him. Only once had a boy whose rabbit had been hung on Tom's whim gone to the caretakers to deal a complaint.

Needless to say that Billy Stubb regretted his decision up to that time.

Being cooped up in hospital for four years now, unable to eat or drink without his throat hurting, to walk himself, to dress himself, to get up from his own bed… Certainly did leave enough time for thinking about the mistakes one had made in life.

Tom sneered at the remembrance, the scared eyes of Billy Stubb springing to his mind. The only good thing about the memory was the pleasant tingling he had felt while willing the boy's bones to break one by one, slowly and excruciatingly. The sound of his pained screams was still ringing in Tom's ears.

Breathless, Tom pulled out a letter from beneath his pillow. He knew it wasn't sensible to leave it there for the whole world to see, but couldn't do anything about it. There was this unreasonable longing burning deep inside his heart that made him caress the worn envelope.

In his hands Tom was holding the very first letter he had received in his short life.

A pity that it was from officials of some kind – school stuff were still considered that, right? – he wouldn't mind receiving one from another person-

Tom hit himself on the hand lightly. "Snap out of it," he muttered, despising himself for his desire.

As long as he remembered, there was a rule in the orphanage – never trust anyone but yourself. Everyone was ready to betray someone else for a pat on the shoulder from the caretakers, who were like wardens in a prison.

The caregiver likes you – you get some additional blankets or clothes or sweets. If not… Well, all the deaths could be written off as an accident or some disease. God knew no one ever checked.

And Tom learned this rule well.

In the beginning, when he had been a mere child, much younger than now both in body and in spirit, he had longed to be friends with someone yet couldn't figure out how friendship worked. Its mechanics were a complete mystery to him. He observed others and couldn't stand their naivety, their constant cheerfulness and the way they blabbered on and on, day in, day out. He had tried to fit in, at first, but had given up on that after first few tries, the belief that he would never find anyone like himself settling firmly into his mind.

Who would compare to him, after all? None of those stupid, immature, bubbling idiots could be in any way equal to him. They couldn't rival him in wits, in appearance, in manners and couldn't do the same things he did – like forcing someone to commit a deed this person didn't want to or give away their possessions to him as a present.

Tom had even invented a game – to compel someone to donate their most priceless belonging to him and, when they wanted it back, blistering with rage and spitting indignantly, he would smile innocently and say they had presented it to him and how disappointed he was at their stinginess.

It always worked, somehow. Whenever he smiled sweetly and talked politely, he didn't have to use compulsion to get what he wanted most of the time.

It was becoming rather boring, to be frank.

' _Though not anymore,'_ Tom thought with glee, opening the envelope and reaching for the letter inside. The emerald green ink had faded, but Tom could still make out the words on it.

It also brought the memories of the man who had delivered it, the freakish man dressed in purple and yellow, who had been smiling too much and too kindly before he exchanged his first words with Tom.

The boy had disliked this Albus Dumbledore immediately and felt smug when he saw the smile slipping from the man's face after Tom had expressed his views on other people- _muggles_ and the like. Then the man's face became closed off, like a concrete wall, not an emotion breaking through.

Tom preferred it like that, to be frank.

Re-reading the text once again and feeling a thrill of anticipation piercing through him, Tom settled in a nest of pillows and blankets he had snatched from his fellow orphans. His last thought before drifting off into the dreamless nap was speculations about what this school of magic would be like.

* * *

Tom tugged at his uncomfortable robes he hadn't yet gotten used to. They were constricting and left his, eghm, private parts open for the wind to breeze through – not something he was particularly happy or impressed about.

He guessed he simply had to get used to it, just like he had gotten used to saying 'Merlin' or 'Morgana' instead of 'God', to calligraphy – even with a quill instead of a pen his writing was still neat and lines perfectly straight just like his teeth were – and to wizards' general ignorance in regards of muggle culture.

What concerned Tom, as much as he wanted to forget all about those filthy ignominious sub-people, every piece of knowledge was important.

He had read real life accounts about how pureblood families forsook their imperiled children just because they didn't want to use muggle means to save them. It was obviously much easier for a pureblood mother to bear the loss of her son if it meant he wouldn't be touched by those 'paws of wretched muggles and their vile inventions'.

Tom had no scruples against using muggle technology when needed, a fact that could give him upper hand some time later in life. And it made his life easy, besides.

The wind blew again, and Tom covered his face with his hand to shield himself from the grains of sand and dust it carried. Scowling, he brushed a lock of his dark brown hair back into his perfectly combed hairstyle.

He was standing in front of the barrier between the platforms 9 and 10. According to that motley creepy man, the entrance was right there. Tom could see it – after just a few minutes of observing he had seen a hundred of people coming to and from the wall.

Couldn't wizards be more careful?

Tom had noticed a couple of police officers looking suspiciously at the barrier. While they couldn't exactly see wizards travelling through the wall, dissipating in its bricks, it was fishy that so much people would swarm around a seemingly uninteresting barrier between two platforms, especially when others were void of crowds.

Tom straightened out his robes and straightened himself. He had never hunched, but this time he had to pay even greater attention towards his appearance – it should be impeccable.

His robes were immaculate, shining with cleanness, not a dirty spot on them. Dark brown tresses parted to a side, not a hair out of place anymore. Boots polished and wand carefully tucked in the holder, he was a picture of perfection – just like he should be.

Tom ignored occasional odd glances people were throwing his way because of his appearance. Most seemed to think he was a young actor of some kind, anyway, – the platform was full of weirdly-dressed people today.

He knew that most muggleborns – and as much as it pained to admit it, he was one, too - usually chose to change on the train, but Tom was too… embarrassed to undress in front of anybody, be it a boy or a girl. He wasn't ashamed of his body, per say, but reluctant to show it to some strangers.

He stepped forward and in a moment passed through the barrier.

A whirlwind of colours – and he was in a buzz of another kind. People were talking, mothers were crying, not wanting to part with their child for the most part of the year, children were shouting to each other things like 'hurry up or the train will go away', fathers were cheering their sons and daughters proudly, pleased with them receiving their magical education at one of the best educational establishments in Europe.

All those sounds created a cacophony, which hurt Tom's ears, sensitive to sounds. Yet the boy didn't allow his face to grimace or show any other signs of discomfort.

He had read in books about purebloods and how they valued endurance, power, and the purity of blood.

While Tom lacked the latter and couldn't correct his upbringing or ancestry, he had a hunch that he would be powerful; even that wand shop owner had told him so. He also knew he would gain wealth over the course of time. And endurance…

Let this be a test for him. If he were indeed to become as powerful as he expected himself to be, he would need to lead and to order people and to make them do things they wouldn't want to. He had no doubt that some would be offended and their shouts of fury and possibly even physical attempts at harming him would be more difficult to fend off than the mild annoyance he felt now in regards of all this buzz.

Grabbing his trunk tighter, Tom set his jaw in determination and moved forward, to the scarlet train.

Yes, he would become great one day.

He was certain of it.


	2. The Heart of Everything

**Chapter 1. The Heart of Everything**

* * *

_September, 1_ _st_

Since the age of five Harry saw magic in people: it wrapped around some wizards like a warm coat, and pulsed around the hearts of others; it latched onto hands or legs, clung to the body like second skin...

And of course, no one else even glimpsed it.

It used to make him feel unnatural, but his only confidant always reassured him that he should feel special instead, and so Harry had learnt to experiment with his influence on others' magic and to enjoy the dance of colours he witnessed.

His mother's was pale green and hugged her hands tightly like gloves she often wore at work in the hospital.

"Where is your father, Harry?"

Harry put his teacup down to respond. "At work. As always. Signing death warrants and deciding criminals' fates, or master-minding their capture."

His voice rang hollowly in the dining-room. He didn't like the manor much because of it – years ago they had lived in Godric's Hollow, in a house soaked with bright laughter and happy memories. But the incident in his childhood had directed their fates onto a gloomier track, especially when James had dragged the family to settle at the Potter family ancestral home, a half-demolished building that scared Harry with its emptiness and grim atmosphere.

Blinking, Lily lifted her head from her oatmeal and swallowed.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," she murmured. Her hand stretched towards him, but considering the length of the table, didn't reach him, so she quickly dropped it. "I take it that since his mad dash to the office yesterday he hasn't returned."

Harry shot her a quick smile. "I spent the evening and the night at Uncle Regulus's. He's got an awesome library, you know."

And an awesome house full of items they forbade him to touch, but he touched anyway. After years of seeing how Regulus and Sirius manipulated their magic to dispel wards on certain areas of the house, he reproduced the feel it gave him, and voila – the wards fell.

Sometimes, seeing things no one else could was a boon.

Lily pursed her lips in a strict fashion. "You should be careful around that man, sweetie," she chided him mildly. "He comes from a Dark family-"

"Just like Uncle Sirius."

"- _and_ he upholds their ideals," Lily pressed on. Her lips were one tight line. "Regulus, the perfect heir, belongs to the curious species of egocentric megalomaniacs who nevertheless manage to charm others into following them. A few words from him – and people are ready to jump on the magical carpet with him, no matter where this carpet flies to. I don't want him to influence your views or make you into his errand boy, or worse yet – his protégé. Only Lucius Malfoy would be worse."

Harry smiled at her. His sweet mother was as oblivious as ever. Staying out of her son's life prevented her from knowing him and his doings. She knew nothing about Regulus's assignment, which Harry had taken up not only for his "uncle's" sake, but also for his own – a few acquaintances here and there could be useful. Blackmail material on them – even more so.

The community of witches and wizards was small, almost pathetically so. And half of Hogwarts graduates joined the Ministry of Magic immediately after the school, with minimal specialist training. Thus, Hogwarts formed the personalities and views of the future generation, and in Hogwarts people forged useful friendships, proved themselves, showed their best and worst sides...

And committed mistakes. Mistakes, which cunning people like Regulus could later use to cajole favours and crush enemies.

To be a winner was a habit. True, some people were born with that burning desire to be the best, but most acquired it with time. As any habit, it could be got rid of. The trouble was to wish for it, to see the need in it, but Regulus prided himself on that character trait instead. And didn't see how much it ruined him.

Harry let Regulus delude himself, even though he cared about the man greatly: Regulus replaced a lot of familial figures in his life.

"Shouldn't you be at work? I didn't expect you to be home today," Harry addressed his mother lightly instead. He cocked his head and carefully surveyed the lines on her face, ones which spoke of exhaustion both physical and magical.

Rising from her seat, she chuckled before striding to him.

"I wanted to spend some time with you," Lily responded warmly. Her hand crept to his mane of raven-black hair, shuffling it. Harry leaned into the rare caress. "I will not be able to see you for a whole year."

"It's not like we usually spend that much time together _without_ Hogwarts-"

"Look at the time, dear," Lily gasped, cutting him off mid-sentence. He gaze flew upwards to the huge clock stuck to the patch of wall over the old wooden double doors. "I have to brew you the eyesight-correcting potion now; after today I'm swarmed with work – those werewolf attacks are getting nastier and nastier, and I won't have a moment to breathe, let alone to brew."

She quickly cast a cleansing charm on the plates, gathered a bottle of water, and shot Harry a faint smile.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm sure you will have your eyesight corrected for good in the future instead of having to imbibe the potion daily. Severus and I are getting there."

She and her celadon-green magic vanished in a whirlwind of work and toil and activity.

"I'd rather stay half-blind for one day but with you here," Harry muttered to the silent row of chairs.

* * *

Harry thanked himself for having looked up the locking charm in his textbook beforehand. Upon his arrival at the station – alone, of course, since Lily was at St Mungo's, stuffing a person's intestines back into their stomach after an unfortunate Apparition – he grabbed Ron and dragged him to an otherwise empty compartment, and they hadn't been disturbed since.

Regulus wanted Harry to build up a set of connections which would help him later, and Harry supported the idea. Ideally, he should be mingling and networking...

But this was his first ride to Hogwarts. Special. He would never feel the same tingle of anticipation, and he had to share the experience with his best friend. Even if said best friend was stuffing his face with sweets while trying to talk at the moment.

Ron stuck another chocolate frog into his mouth.

"Dunno why you don't go and whine to your parents 'bout him already. Doubt that the git will let you off peacefully at Hogwarts." Ron's face contorted into a grimace. "His classes are the worst. No way you won't lose a billion points just on the first day."

Harry heaved a sigh in response, observing his own chocolate frog as it hung from his fingers in a vain struggle to escape – until he popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he mulled over the list of lies he could spout.

After all, Snape knew a secret of his. An awful, terrifying secret that spoke volumes of Harry's personality and its darker shades. A secret Harry preferred to forget; just to dump into the recesses of his mind and never reach again, never think about, never recollect, never-

But Snape wouldn't let him. Neither would his own gnawing conscience.

So, Harry tolerated the sneers and watched his family crumble in front of his very eyes because of Snape's meddling, all the while tempted to end that farce of benevolent deceptions in one swift blow, but when a confession danced on the tip of his tongue, he remembered the disappointment on his father's face, imagined it worsen, and snapped his mouth shut. Then he smiled and lied, just like he would do now.

The corners of Harry's lips pulled up.

"I can't always rush to clutch my mother's skirts when someone dislikes me, Ron," he remarked lightly. "Besides, Snape can't hold a grudge _that_ long. I'm good at Potions. I'll knock him out with a complete recount of our potions textbook."

Ron cast him an unimpressed look, and Harry deflated.

"Well, maybe not. Still, if I'm in Slytherin, at least he won't dock points."

"That's the point. You won't be in Slytherin," Ron groused out. "Mate, you're too good to join Malfoy and his cronies in the snake-pit. All that political-whatever thingy aside, he's got nothing to boast about: average magic, git, no smarts..." Ron's voice acquired a smug lilt to it. "And Ginny wipes the floor with him in a brawl."

"He's not that bad-" Harry started before sighing. "All right, he is, most of the time. Still, he isn't as dim as you usually make him out to be. Malfoy knows some strong spells, and he _is_ intelligent; just not intelligent enough to not flaunt it."

Ron snorted and finished off his box of chocolate frogs, changing the topic with his mouth half-full.

They spent the entire ride in a friendly banter about Houses and odd people they knew, Ron's siblings and Regulus's doings, and for a few hours Harry basked in the flaming orange of Ron's warm, fiery, homey magic.

* * *

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" A giant man was shouting, waving one of his hands and holding a bobbing lamp with another.

Tom couldn't understand why he wouldn't use a spell to light up the way, but judging by the stupid expression the giant wore – _smiling_ , of all things! – the buffoon would confuse his wand with any ordinary stick. The boy scowled darkly, hating the stupidity of others, yet used to it.

"C'mon, follow me - any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

They did as told and followed the man to the lake, black in the darkness of the night. Evening mist was covering the view of the castle. They gathered around the big hairy man, looking at him questioningly.

"I've read about this lake in Hogwarts, A History," a bushy-haired girl whispered loudly to someone next to her.

Tom sneered in annoyance. He had found out she was a mudblood and a nosy one to boot. He had been sitting with her and a fat boy the whole train ride, and they had almost driven him mad – the girl with her annoying opinions on the Wizarding World he hadn't asked for and the boy with his continuous questions about his frog.

_Just get rid of the damn thing already,_ Tom thought with aggravation, glaring at the squeaking boy when one of the students barely evaded stepping on the frog. _I would have tolerated their presence more if they were of some use to me._

Alas, he had found that neither bore any particular standing in the Wizarding World and both were a waste of time and effort to be on good terms with.

He had people to charm and couldn't waste away on someone like that.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore.

Tom got into the same boat as the toad-boy, the bushy-haired bookworm, and a girl with pigtails.

What companions he had to put up with.

"Everyone in? Then, let's go!"

The boats glided across the lake and, as they got near, the outlines of the castle became less blurred. Tom heard someone gasp at the magnificent view while his companions were all staring like fools with open mouths at the sight. He would never lower himself to do something so common.

The fleet of boats arrived, and they were free to stand up and feel the solid ground underneath their feet. Tom was relieved. He had never really liked swimming or sailing in a boat. The loss of the earth made him anxious and alarmed.

The huge oak doors swung open and revealed a tall black-haired woman. Her emerald green robes accentuated the strictness of her face. Her, Tom rather liked. She seemed different from that Dumbledore man and oaf Hagrid.

"The Firs' years, Professor McGonagall," the oaf said respectfully, bowing to the woman a bit.

_So, she must be the Deputy Headmistress,_ Tom deduced, staring hungrily at the way the giant all but plastered down for the woman. Someday, he would hold the same power, only more of it.

"Thank you, Hagrid." The woman nodded politely, a smile never once crossing her stern face. "Let me take it from here."

She turned around and motioned for the children to follow her. Tom could see some blond kid with two boys, more like bodyguards rather than friends, lining him, whisper something degrading at the woman's back and point a finger at her.

Without turning around, she waved her wand and their lips sealed shut, only incoherent mumbles getting through.

Tom leaned in. It seemed like a useful spell to know. He made a mental note to himself to look it up in the library as soon as possible.

Professor McGonagall showed them into a small room off the hall, forcing them to stand really close. They awaited her words patiently.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

This was the same stuff Tom had already read in the _Hogwarts, A History_. Feeling bored, he chose to glance around the room at his year mates to kill time.

Some, he had seen at the train station or in the train itself. The female mudblood bookworm was nodding pompously at every word the Deputy Headmistress was saying, obviously agreeing. Her lips moved as in a prayer, repeating everything breathlessly.

Everyone was listening attentively to the woman drone on and on about house points, houses, and house cups. The rivalry appeared to be quite silly to Tom – why would someone divide students according to the features they could all lose in the long run?

_Wizards' logic,_ Tom decided grimly, studiously disregarding the fact that he himself was a wizard.

His attention was attracted by the only other student who wasn't standing there gaping like a fish at the information provided. Tom's eyes flashed in interest as he eyed the boy appreciatively.

The boy's hair was a blackest of blacks, and eyes were the colour of fresh green grass. He was thin and petit, small even for his age, and his shoulder blades seemed so thin that Tom feared they would snap from one touch.

He caught himself just in time to understand that he was openly admiring a person other than himself; further than that, _fearing_ for this person's health, which hadn't happened to Tom in all his years of living. Tom forced himself to look away.

But even when ghosts flew in the room and began what Tom would soon learn a traditional spectacle of introducing newcomers to Hogwarts, his eyes constantly drifted to the other boy, hungrily drinking in every reaction, every small gesture or a tiny change of facial expression, which, admittedly, wasn't much – the boy appeared to be as emotionless as Tom was, unfortunately.

Yet the outward temperance couldn't hide a mischievous spark in the boy's eyes, which intrigued Tom and drove him mad with speculations about how it could be applied.

When they all stepped forth into the Great Hall, a resplendent place, even Tom had to admit, and grouped together while waiting for McGonagall to pull out her parchment with names written over it, he couldn't help but move closer to his objective, stepping almost into this person's private bubble.

Up close, the other boy was even more stunning, with sharp aristocratic features and a perfectly sculptured face, which was scrunched up in concentration as the boy took in the beautiful ceiling over them. His rich clothes, straight posture, and the way he held himself showed Tom that the boy was a pureblood. He couldn't believe just how pleased the thought made him feel.

When he would be creating his own kingdom without any filth corrupting it, he wouldn't need to annihilate the boy.

As if sensing someone's presence behind him, the smaller wizard whirled around, brilliant eyes filled with wonder. He tilted his head, lips twisting to ask something, and Tom's heart rate accelerated in excitement at the knowledge that he would hear the boy's voice, but the Sorting Hat began its song. The raven-haired boy, with a lingering knowing look, went back to watching the events unfolding in front of him.

Disappointed at himself for losing his chance, at his new weakness, and at the boy for making him feel this, Tom clapped as loudly as everyone else when the song ended and the Sorting began.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

The pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails who had shared the boat with Tom stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause-

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Tom sneered at the antics, not understanding why they had to be so loud about it.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

"Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw too, but "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers.

"Bulstrode, Millicent" then became a Slytherin.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Finnigan, Seamus," the sandy-haired boy next to Tom in the line, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.

"Granger, Hermione!"

The bushy-haired mudblood almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat. Tom heard someone groan.

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted, "GRYFFINDOR," Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag."

"Malfoy, Draco!"

The blond boy, whose mouth was still shut as if sewn up by invisible threads, swaggered forward. The Hat took a moment to place him in Slytherin.

There weren't many people left now. "Moon" "Nott" "Parkinson" then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil" then "Perks, Sally-Anne" and then, at last - "Potter, Harry!"

The raven-haired boy walked to the stool, sitting on it gracefully. Tom imprinted the name firmly into his memory. He doubted he would ever forget it.

This was also a perfect opportunity to study the boy, Harry, drinking in his features. Tom consoled himself that he was doing it simply because the boy, as an obvious pureblood, would be a good ally to have.

"RAVENCLAW!" the Hat shouted at last, after tense moments of contemplation. Tom didn't let frustration tear at him.

He _would_ find a way to talk to the boy.

Just for the purpose of gaining an ally, of course.

Waiting for his turn, Tom watched dispassionately as the boy strode to the Ravenclaw table. Was it a figment of his imagination, or did the Ravenclaws really clap louder than they had done before?

"Riddle, Tom!"

Schooling his features into well-bred blankness he had seen purebloods use, Tom sauntered towards the Sorting Hat and placed it on his brown hair.

"Hmm…" It took Tom all his willpower not to cringe at the abrupt appearance of the voice in his head. He only gripped the stool tighter.

"Let's see… A good mind you have here, but your knowledge will never be for the good of the humankind. Rather, you are the one to invent the Unforgivables."

Tom smirked slightly at that. He didn't know what the Unforgivables were, but sounded good.

"I can't throw you to Hufflepuff. Merlin knows what you'll do to them, poor things. And I can't see any particular bravery or desire to help in you – you'd rather drown someone to save yourself. This leaves me with one choice, especially because of your talent."

"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat shouted loudly for the whole population of Howarts to hear.

The claps coming from the Slytherin table weren't as loud as were their wary whispers, the eyes of the Slytherins mistrustful and borderline hostile when he neared them.

His face showed nothing; Tom refused to be cowed by those, whose intellectual and power level was inferior to his, no matter what kind of family they came from.

Instead, he focused on the small figure sitting at the table across the Hall.

He observed the way the boy smiled shyly in response to something said to him, and the way his cheeks tinged a bit with pink. Tom didn't know how he could notice it from such a distance away, but he noticed everything about this boy, no matter how small or inconspicuous the detail was.

He scowled, wiping from his mind Potter and his misdirected attention, and grabbed his fork.

Tomorrow.

He would work on it tomorrow. He would talk to the boy and discover the reason the thoughts of him distracted Tom so much.

* * *

Dark violet.

The colour entranced him, pulled him in. Harry refused to stare, even though he wished to glue his eyes to the sight.

Most people's magic, while pretty, wasn't magnificent. With a few exceptions like Dumbledore, of course, and some powerful duellists or Masters of their chosen fields. Colours would be muted, often pale, seldom pure.

That Riddle boy, on the other hand...

Whirls of purple concentrated around his shoulders and cascaded down his spine to the floor. The magic captivated others, too, even if they didn't see it: Albus Dumbledore's and Snape's eyes slid to the proudly sitting muggleborn*, Malfoy constantly fidgeted in his seat, as if sensing something, and some Slytherins blanked out once in a while – all under the influence of that power.

The darker the colour, the stronger the magic.

The Slytherin's was such a dark purple it resembled black.

Harry spent the entire evening throwing covert glances in its direction.

* * *

Harry grimaced when the comprehension of just how _crowded_ the Ravenclaw dorms were dawned on him. He shared the tiny circular room with five other boys. Five boys who were chatting, laughing, chortling, moving, and acting as rambunctious as their age permitted. Worse still – only Stephen Cornfoot possessed a somewhat decent magical aura, pinkish and excited, unused to the concentration of magic at Hogwarts, since the boy belonged to the muggleborn ilk and thus had never experienced such an assemblage of wizarding folk.

No one in his dorm could compare in magnificence and allure to that Tom-something boy with his mantle of royal purple misty matter that Harry craved to touch. _Their_ magic didn't sing to him.

Again, why had he thought coming to Hogwarts would be better than begging his older friends to home-school him?

Oh, yes, Regulus and his assignment.

Harry stretched on his bed, deciding that unpacking could wait until the next morning. Or the next week... He wasn't picky, and rest enticed him more.

With one ear he listened to his dormmates making small talk, the purebloods and halfblood explaining to muggleborns the basics of their world, acting as who-is-who guides for their fellows Ravenclaws. Harry lacked the patience needed to enlighten those more ignorant than him in some matters, so he opted out of that talk, hoping to get a wink of sleep after a summer full of Rodolphus's and Regulus's tutelage.

As always, luck turned its back on him when the fancy struck Michael Corner to pull him into their conversation.

"How about you, Harry? Are you going to focus on several particular subjects needed for your future job, or brave it all with equal zeal?"

Of course, no Ravenclaw entertained the notion that he could simply "waste away" his years at Hogwarts on building up a network of useful people. Unless it was two years before the NEWTs and they needed to get a job from somewhere, of course. Without turning his head, Harry swept the other boys with a glance from beneath his eyelashes.

"I'll try to survive Potions, I guess," he began, noticing how Michael and Anthony Goldstein both grimaced. "And devote the same amount of time to all subjects. And probably do some research on my own."

Anthony hummed in response before asking hesitantly, "Is it true that Regulus Black is grooming you to be his political heir?"

"Regulus Black? From the Black family?" Kevin Entwhistle perked up with his eyes full of delighted surprise. "I read about him in a book-"

"That rumour is wrong," Harry cut in as he sat up in a single abrupt motion. Frost seeped into his voice. He didn't appreciate people tittle-tattling about his possible future in the Ministry, because it would _not_ be happening. "He's a close friend who scrapes up some free time to keep me company and teach me a couple of spells, but I'm not ending up in the Ministry."

Harry saw James frequently enough to realise that his work had transformed the man into a living corpse who mostly stayed buried under a mountain of paperwork, once in a blue moon dug his way out to spend a day with the family, and after that "holiday" returned to the ministerial grave. He hardly saw Regulus after his string of political successes, and the same could be said about half of Harry's older friends.

He missed them. He missed them no matter how selfishly they behaved.

"I hear Mr Black was a superb duellist in his Hogwarts year," Anthony mumbled after an awkward pause in the conversation.

Harry shrugged.

"He still is. He has mastered the art of duelling that the last time he mock-fought Uncle Sirius, he hammered my godfather down," he recounted with a smile as he remembered Sirius's gobsmacked look. "And Uncle Sirius is one of the best Aurors – rivalling my father, allegedly."

Someone whistled.

"Mind showing us some spells, then, someday?" Michael piped in curiously before fiddling with his fingers. "I'd appreciate it a lot, 'cause I'd like to be an Auror, too, someday." He beamed. "All because of your dad, you know! The tales of his exploits in the Prophet substituted _The Tales of Beadle the Bard_ for me in my childhood. I never came 'round to picking up that book because Auror James was a greater hero than any knight."

The smiled on Harry's face sharpened, pained. He traced some similarities there: James had prevented him from reading fairy tales, too. He constantly attempted to push Harry into his own interests, like Quidditch and pranking, disregarding his son's outcry for a different pastime.

Probably that was why their relationship had gone south.

Harry warded off those thoughts and beckoned them to lean in.

"Nott wrote me that we'll have a Duelling Club at Hogwarts next year," he revealed softly and enjoyed the surprise flaring on their faces. "We'll all show each other a couple of tricks here and there, 'kay?"

The others nodded happily. Harry, convinced he had fulfilled his duty, rested his head on the pillow again. In his sleep he allowed the memories of breathtaking amethyst-coloured magic embrace him.

* * *

*Harry doesn't know that Tom is a halfblood, so he makes an assumption judging by his surname.


	3. Just a Step Away

**Chapter 2. Just a Step Away**

* * *

_September, 4th_

"Theo, know any good hexes to use on this mudblood?"

Tom was lying on his bed, his dark eyes half-lidded as he listened intently to what his housemates were saying. He glanced at his watch in annoyance. It was time to go down for breakfast soon, but he was reluctant to leave while his housemates still lingered there.

When he had first heard of acrid controversies between mudbloods and purebloods, he hadn't expected to be confronted with such a wave of enmity from the people he was supposed to trust.

Tom wasn't a coward; had he known any hexes or curses, he wouldn't have worried. Alas, their number exceeded his lonely presence, and the idea of traipsing around with Gryffindor-red hair after a hex did not appeal to him.

"Better not risk it, you know how Dumbledore is. The mudblood will go to him, and the old coot will go whine to the Board. My father will be rather... dissatisfied if he has to hear about my getting caught attacking someone. He always tells me to hide the body- or, well, the wounds I inflict."

"You have always been a pansy, Draco," Blaise Zabini, a dark-skinned curly-haired boy sneered contemptuously, glaring at the blond from beneath the dark fringe. "It's a wonder you've made it into Slytherin."

"Don't insult me! If my father finds out-"

"Yeah, yeah. We know. Good Merlin, Draco, do you tell your father even how many times you go to piss? Honestly, you are unbearable!"

From behind the curtains, Tom felt the same, hating the way he agreed with Theodore Nott, a boy not burdened with astonishing intellectual abilities.

"You-!"

"Anyway, what are we going to do with the mudblood?" someone butted in impatiently.

_Idiots,_ Tom thought mockingly, his hands wrinkling his light-green blanket. _I can hear you, you know. If you are going to assassinate me, do it_ discreetly _._

Not that he wouldn't be able to thwart any plan they threw at him.

"Dunno. Poison him or something? Mother always does that when someone annoys her. Usually it's her husbands; she has quite the _collection_. Of poisons, I mean."

A chuckle rang out in the room. "And of husbands, I bet. Any space left in the backyard?"

_I'd better check my goblet next time. Should I buy a flask for myself? Doesn't seem too bad of an idea. I should definitely remember it this summer when I go to Diagon Alley._

"No one doubted your mother's _skills_ , Blaise, but I think she will notice if one of her precious vials gets stolen."

"Listen here, minions!" Draco Malfoy exclaimed, irritation entering his tone. "Why waste all this good stuff on a mudblood? We can do better. Use it on, say, Dumbledore; he has been living for far too long, in my opinion. My father thinks so, too."

"We don't _live_ with Dumbledore, Draco."

"The mudblood is an eyesore! Of course _it_ should be killed!"

"I agree with Goyle, no matter how retarded _that_ sounds. The mudblood will bring us nothing but trouble. Mordred knows they are uneducated barbarians. I bet Salazar Slytherin weeps in his grave to have one in his honourable house."

_You know my name! Use it!_ Tom thought angrily and balled his thin childish fingers into fists, not used to this kind of treatment. The orphanage had been different. They had been afraid, terrified of his power and his smile, and frightened of the deeds he forced them to do as his magic dazzled them.

"Dead can't do it, can they? Weep?"

"Sure they can't, Vincent. It's a figure of speech. I won't use the word 'metaphorical' 'cause I know you won't know what it means in any case."

Crabbe responded an exasperated Malfoy with a dull glance.

"Let's go have breakfast, guys," Nott proposed, motioning to the door. "Leave the mudblood here. Who knows, he might die of oversleeping."

"Only you would think of such idiocies like this one, Theo." Zabini scoffed soundly, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Hey, it could be true! My Uncle…" Their voices drifted off as the boys left the room one by one, leaving a seething Tom alone.

When he was sure they were gone, he crawled out of his bed and stretched, getting ready to start his first day in a magical school. He wasn't impressed with the reception, but realized that others couldn't see his potential from his appearance. He had to prove himself to them, of that he had no doubt. Friendliness, respect, or loyalty were hard to come by these days, and the boy was contemplating different ways of acquiring at least one while brushing his teeth and going through his morning rituals.

Tom scowled, remembering the blabbering fools who prided themselves in being purebloods. If this was what native wizarding folk was like, no wonder that muggles were the prevailing race. It just showed how those mudblood supremacists were right in their opinion that muggles and wizards were alike.

Their shared idiocy was a perfect bonder.

Once again, Tom's thoughts drifted to the black-haired boy from the evening before, Harry Potter, his name was. Would he be like them? Completely and utterly useless and dull? Or would he be something else entirely? More like Tom himself, perhaps?

...And his entire fascination with the other student stunk of something fishy and unnatural. In his entire life, Tom had never spared a thought to other people, yet now the image of the boy haunted his dreams and his thoughts and his plans – and it scared him. Perhaps he was overreacting - after all, a few passing thoughts could hardly be described as 'haunting' or 'obsessive', but he would prefer not to have them at all.

The brown-haired boy was fastening the clasp on his black and green school robes when he realized he was once again devoting too much time to thinking about someone other than himself, potential ally or not. He pinned up his Slytherin badge to his robes, and the pin grazed his creamy skin lightly, drawing blood.

With a hiss, Tom skewered it with a glare, knowing that there was no time to fix it – he had designed a certain schedule for himself, and his descend to the Great Hall had to begin now.

For some people a scraped hand would be a mere nuisance, but to Tom, who strived to be the epitome of flawlessness, it was one more imperfection in addition to his tainted ancestry. Not to mention that it reminded him too much of those little children who played often with each other and had scratches like that all over their bodies along with other mild injuries.

He looked at himself in the mirror: classical features, expressionless face, dark eyes, immaculate robes, and polished shoes. And a scratch on his hand, its bloody red contrasting starkly with his pale complexion.

Would Potter notice it?

Tom pinched himself lightly to get his mind off the topic.

Even if Potter did, it didn't matter to Tom. It didn't. He needed no one's approval or disapproval, because he was certain he would hold a position of power in the Wizarding World. He wasn't sure which one yet: he didn't know much about wizarding professions. He wanted it to be a substitute for a muggle politician – a career in which people would be begging him to accept them, to acknowledge them.

Dark eyes flashing in anger. Tom wiped the blood off his hand with a handkerchief and stomped down the stairs to have breakfast.

* * *

His housemates were finishing with their meal, only crumbs left on their plates. They were talking animatedly with one another, some arguing, some gesticulating wildly to prove their point, others simply staring off into space or whispering with their companions in hushed tones.

Tom supposed it was still better than Gryffindors – those were howling with laughter at something two gingers were showing. A grinning black boy sitting next to them cracked open a matchbox, and a couple of girls bolted up from their seats screaming.

Unfortunately, Tom's placement at his table – between a blonde girl named Daphne Greengrass, the only one not minding a mudblood near her, and Goyle, who wasn't that much of a company – didn't give him an adequate view of the object in the matchbox. Craning his neck like a prying fool was out of question – what respected man would commit such an undignified gesture?

A shame. In the box could be something Tom could use to hurt or threaten others with. Wasn't that how wizards and witches made friends? Seemed to work pretty well for the redheads, anyway.

_Potter is not here,_ Tom thought absently while shuffling stewed carrots around the plate. In the end he decided they wouldn't poison him. Not that morning. Even if his classmates _had_ decided to assassinate him for his blood, they wouldn't have had the time to receive a package from their homes or steal it from the Potions Master.

Speaking about Potions Masters…

Professor Severus Snape, a man with greasy black hair and yellowish waxy skin, was a brooding glaring thing, and had snapped at Tom something about being up to standards in Slytherin. The boy had been listening to the man droning on and on about house loyalty and honour (did Slytherins have one? A huge surprise here) and found himself severely disappointed in the man.

Couldn't they have found a better Head of House? Tom just hoped Snape would be adequate at potions as a qualified specialist. Tom tolerated anyone as long as they did their job well.

An elbow nudged him, and Tom turned his head to the blonde sitting on his left. He raised his eyebrow, waiting for the explanation.

"I suggest we get going," she told him and brushed a lock of hair away from her azure eyes.

She was pretty, Tom supposed, and pureblood. He wondered why she would talk to him.

"The bell doesn't ring for another twenty minutes," Tom responded haughtily, lifting his chin.

Greengrass looked at him pityingly and sighed, shaking her head. "You're a mudblood, aren't you? There is no need to reply. You try to hide it but completely botch up it all up with small things like that."

A dark scowl crossed Tom's face, and the boy moved to get up, ready to leave. He had wanted to go to the classroom anyway, even before that stranger had addressed him. Greengrass gripped his arm, preventing him from standing up, and tugged him closer.

Fury spiked in Tom at the touch. A flash of red tainting his eyes, a hissed command of "Let go!" – and Greengrass winced away from him, as if both bedazzled and frightened.

Tom mentally smirked, recognising the reaction: the orphanage's children responded the same way, cringing and gasping and crying, but always submitting. And wizarding children were not immune either, Tom noticed when a bemused grimace crossed Greengrass's face when she realised she had acted strangely for her.

Now, Tom had to test it against adults. Would a malicious chuckle sound over the top?

"I didn't want to offend you-" Greengrass began apologetically.

"You didn't." His pride wouldn't let him say aloud or admit to himself otherwise.

"Hogwarts is huge, if you haven't noticed. There are a lot of classrooms here, but that's not the problem. Staircases move and false doors are scattered all over the place. You can get a nasty surprise if you don't know the right paths."

"And you do?" Tom asked reluctantly, a calculative glint in his eyes. If his impressions were right… He was on the road to acquiring his first fr- ally. He heard the term 'ally' used often in the dungeons and the books, and it definitely sounded less mushy than friends.

'Friends' and all the botched attempts at making them remained in the orphanage.

"Father's on the Board of the Governors," Greengrass said smugly, hurriedly urging Tom to rise and follow her out of the Hall. He could see students around him doing the same. "He lets me come with him if I want to on some occasions. Very useful, if you ask me."

"And why are you being so helpful? Don't you hold a grudge against muggles?" Tom asked her, only now noticing the way she was holding his hand, and wrestled his limb out of her hold. His voice was laden with distrust: he didn't believe in people's goodwill at all.

Her cheeks flushed a dark brown, Greengrass mumbled something incoherently and averted her eyes as she guided him through the labyrinth of corridors, their steps hurried.

Realization hit Tom, and he smirked complacently, knowing the blonde wouldn't see him from her position. The idiot had a crush on him! It cleared everything up, and speculations about how he could use this to his advantage immediately filled his mind. Plans began to form, and Tom couldn't wait to sort out the best possible choices of how to execute them in the silence of his room tonight.

"I- Um…" She obviously wanted to slow down to catch her breath, but Tom didn't let her. He didn't give a damn about her well-being, and she herself seemed to be smitten with him, which gave the boy a lot of leeway.

"Our family is neutral in all this hustle between muggles and wizards," Greengrass admitted finally, when they were steps away from the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom.

Tom nodded distractedly, not really caring about the answer.

He made up his mind to start researching important wizarding families and who was who in the Wizarding World, and how they treated people with muggle descent. He would have done it sooner but school funding didn't involve much – all the money had been used to buy books and proper clothes, including but not limited to everyday robes.

When Tom entered the class and Professor Quirinus Quirrell, a balding stammering man in his thirties, began his lesson, the boy's mind was far from the boring introductory speech as he made mental lists about the literature he had to peruse.

* * *

Tom was striding aggravatedly to the next classroom, Greengrass having already told him the way. Her speech hadn't been coherent, what's with that awkward moment from before, but Tom wasn't called a genius for naught: his mind processed her rambling explanations with practiced ease, acquired at the orphanage.

His Defense against the Dark Arts lessons had been one huge disappointment. The teacher was a stuttering fool and while he knew the subject decently, his manner of speech stood in the way of comprehensibly conveying the information.

It was bloody frustrating, Tom thought, clenching his small fists in annoyance and glaring at the students passing by. Some Hufflepuff first year, whose name Tom didn't remember, squeaked and rushed out of his way under the power of the Glare of Doom.

With self-satisfaction, Tom once again ascertained the power he still held over others despite his blood.

He saw the door leading to their Transfiguration classroom and, grasping the cool metal of the handle, pushed it open. The Deputy Headmistress, who was the Transfiguration Professor, was nowhere to be seen. The only other living creature besides himself was the bushy haired bookworm from Gryffindor, muttering to herself the contents of the book aloud, her hands cupping her ears to drown out the noise from the corridor. A cat on the table watched her intently.

Tom placed his bag on the desk gently and sat down, observing the cat with a tilt of his head. There was something off about the animal, Tom knew. Its eyes were too intelligent for a lowly creature not encumbered with human intellect. He narrowed his gaze and glared at the creature, forcing it to relent and give away all its secrets with sheer force of his glower.

The cat glanced down at him, and Tom looked away. The clock tic-tocked loudly. Granger kept revising.

He didn't understand the need to review the material now – the classes hadn't begun yet and there was no homework to do. Of course, Tom had read the books, marking the most interesting paragraphs and facts, but for the most part textbooks were filled with useless information on the most basic of things – how to hold one's wand or huge treatises on the dangers of mispronouncing spells. True, those details made up magic but they weren't worth memorising - reading them once painted the whole picture.

Five minutes were left until the class began and students were rushing in in small groups of three-five. Some of them were gasping for breath after what obviously had been a mad dash to the classroom. It was a known fact that McGonagall wasn't a woman to tolerate any lateness or other disregard for rules. Even the students of her own house were punished most severely because of the smallest transgressions.

The creepy cat hadn't moved an inch.

"I heard McGonagall, the old cat, loves taking away points from Slytherin," Nott complained vociferously, landing on a chair two seats away from Tom. He threw his bag on the desk carelessly and leaned in to whisper in Zabini's ear loudly. "Favours her own house, I heard. She's really angry with Snape for Slytherin taking away from her _both_ the House Cup and the Qudditch Cup. I fear she's going to take it all out on us."

Zabini waved him away, not at all concerned.

"Nah, I doubt it. She's too much of a goody two shoes to play unfairly, I tell you."

The bell rang. Tom watched in freezing disdain as his yearmates, encouraged by the absence of the professor, went on talking noisily. He kept quiet, as did Granger, the only other person besides himself to sit alone.

Greengrass chose to sit with Bulstrode this time, and they were talking in a hushed whisper, gesticulating animatedly but otherwise quiet. A couple of times Tom could feel Greengrass's lingering glances on his back but didn't turn around.

Suddenly, the door swung open and everyone's heads whirled around to see the newcomer. Weasley was making his way to the front seat, an apologetic yet relieved grimace on his face.

"Nev, can I sit with you?" Without waiting for a reply, the redhead whom Tom found to be as obnoxious and annoying as any other Gryffindor, crashed on the chair next to the frightened Longbottom. "It's cool that McGonnagal's not here. I heard she can be pretty vicious."

Hardly had he finished the sentence the cat's still figure began to transform. A moment later a strict woman with tight lines around her mouth was standing in front of them. She stepped off the teacher's desk gracefully and pursed her lips, looking at their class with disdain.

"Detention with Mr. Filch for a week, Mr. Weasley," she said sharply, and Tom's previous claims that the woman wasn't someone to be messed with were verified. Filch was a sick nasty man with equally sick nasty punishments. Tom was determined as hell to never get discovered while going against school rules.

The redhead flushed a scarlet red and muttered a sorry before ducking his head into the textbook to keep it like that for the rest of the class.

"The same concerns Mr. Zabini and Mr. Nott," she continued in that steely tone. Both of the mentioned boys paled, opened their mouths, and closed them.

"If you have all settled the matters regarding your teacher's competence," she was talking to a completely silent class now, in which Tom rejoiced and for which he respected her. "I hope we can start."

They took out their quills and poised them under the parchment, ready to write down whatever information was new or needed for a quiz.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," McGonagall said, walking about the classroom to take a look at each of her students and memorize their faces. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and never come back. You have been warned."

Moving swiftly, she spun around and transformed her desk into a pig and back again. Tom was very much impressed with the sight just like everyone else but knew they wouldn't be doing inanimate objects to animal transfiguration until their fifth year, when the teacher would be sure they had grasped the basics. If there was anyone falling behind or the material seemed to be over their head, teachers had the right to abolish the topic for that year and return to it only in their seventh class. It made Tom crease his eyebrows in displeasure. Why would his potential be hindered because of some imbecilic morons who couldn't hold their wand right?

"By the end of the class, I want at least one of you to be able to turn the matches I have given you into needles. If you succeed, it will result in points for you and your housemates. If not, the task will be left for you to do in your free time. You will show me your progressing skills during the next lesson. Get to work."

McGonagall showed the class how transfiguration was done, brilliantly transforming the match into the needle. She made it seem easy by her display, but in reality it was much harder.

They were struggling with it for what seemed like half an hour before Tom got the gist of it and his match became pointy and silvery. With sophisticated pride he called McGonagall to show her his achievement.

She looked at him in bewilderment and forced out, her eyes wide as saucers, "Extraordinary, Mr. Riddle!" She took a deep breath and regained control of herself, giving him a stare full of consideration and a rare smile. "Well, I believe we can expect great things from you. If you continue showing such progress, I believe that even Headmaster Dumbledore will seem pale in comparison to you one day. Twenty points to Slytherin!"

She returned to checking other students' progress, so astounded that she didn't mind the loud chatter behind her back. Tom was very pleased with himself, especially when his eye caught Nott's and Zabini's wondering gazes as well as Greengrass's excited whispering with Davis and Bulstrode.

Those words about expectations… They reminded Tom a great deal about what Ollivander had told him in Diagon Alley while selling Tom his yew wand. The man had mentioned an issue with brother wands but Tom wasn't paying great attention to that – his mind had been filled with the ways to use his new wand.

Smirking slightly, Tom inclined his head and worked on other matches, shaping them differently or giving them different colours. It was a victory, but a small one.

The first step to his goal.

He had to work further if he wanted to achieve the same kind of influence people like Dumbledore had – only more. Much, much more. He didn't know what exactly he wanted to do, except that everyone would regret not befriending him, and they would be jealous, and they would obey. And he would be their king.

The awed mutterings around him never ceased and made a fine symphony to which he enchanted a whole box of matches.

* * *

The last lesson of the day was Potions with their Head of House.

Tom was quite thrilled to see how Snape would conduct his lessons – the man seemed to have something against both working with children and children in general.

Another reason Tom was so excited was that the lesson was with the Ravenclaws.

He would see Potter there!

_Not that I'm eager to see him, of course,_ Tom corrected himself harshly and hastily, not noticing how there was an additional bounce to his step. _I'm merely wondering whether he is valuable as an ally and worth of this hustle of befriending him. Nothing more._

Their Potions class was situated deep down in the dungeons, far below the level of the Great Hall. Dungeons were cold, and lurking shadows seemed to hide horrible secrets and dark, twisted mysteries. Glass jars stood all around the walls with both pickled and living animals and insects floating in them. The sight was eerily frightening. Tom supposed he was lucky that neither Ravenclaws nor Slytherins were of the weak sort. Hufflepuffs fainted occasionally - or so the rumour went.

Pity that Tom hadn't been there. It would have been entertaining to watch all those weak willed morons flail their hands not knowing what to do.

...But then again, a rumour didn't equal truth.

Greengrass and her friend Tracey Davis were flanking him now, talking about something inane excitedly. After his excellent performance in Transfiguration class, some students grudgingly admitted he could be as good as any pureblood.

Well, Tom had known it before, of course. But see them acknowledge his talents brought an unidentifiable kind of happiness.

If only they could admire him and be silent at the same time.

Upon entering the classroom, he immediately noticed rows of empty cauldrons and a huge blackboard just behind teacher's desk. Tom chose to sit in the front row once again, this time with Greengrass joining him.

The boy neatly arranged his small jars with animal parts, flies' wings, plants, and flowers, as well as empty crystal vials and brass scales. Potions was apparently a subject that needed precision and self-organization, the traits denoting Tom so well. Needless to say that the boy had been most anxious to start learning this subject.

And potions were connected with poisons.

Even in his early years Tom had noted how the best and most mysterious assassinations were done with a drop of a poison. Potions Masters surely knew how to make an untraceable one, right?

That Zabini guy had also said something about his mother owning a collection of them. Could be useful to get to know him. To become his 'ally'.

The minute the bell rang Severus Snape swept in with his black robes flying around him. His expression was as sour as it had been the day before. Tom secretly wondered if his professor physically _could_ be happy for once.

"Like an overgrown bat, he is," leaned in to whisper rather loudly in Morag McDougal's ear Kevin Entwhisle.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for insulting a teacher." Snape's voice cut through them like a razor blade. His eyes emphasized the waxy paleness of his skin and their blackness reminded way too much of dark tunnels.

It worked and there was no talk after that. Perfectionists, Ravenclaws didn't want to lose their chance at the House Cup. Snape would generously provide them many other opportunities for that.

The man started the class by taking the roll call. He paused, ever so slightly, at Harry Potter's name. No one else noticed it, but Tom was awfully perceptive when it came to the other boy and the slight change in his professor's tone hadn't gone unnoticed.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," Snape began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word — like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. It drew a reluctant kind of respect from Tom.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you to really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even brew a stopper of death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Slytherins knew that Snape would never dock points from his own House – Tom had overheard proudly telling it to them the day before – but Ravenclaws tensed and straightened in their seats, alertness shining in their eyes.

Suddenly, Snape rounded on Harry.

"Potter!" He sneered, glaring at the staggered boy as if the latter had offended him. Surprisingly, there was only understanding and resignation in Potter's expression, as if he knew it would happen. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

A couple of Slytherins stretched their hands into the air along with some Ravenclaws.

"The Drought of Living Death, sir," Potter replied calmly, tilting his head and making raven black locks fall into his eyes with the motion. Snape seemed to find offense in the boy's politeness.

"Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Potter opened his mouth a bit in perplexity and his eyebrows creased. Tom couldn't stop a surge of inexplicable anger directed at Snape. _'Can't he just lay off him?'_ Tom thought with aggravation, his fingers tapping the edge of his cauldron soundlessly.

After a few moments of intensive thinking, just as Snape's lips were twisting into a triumphant smirk and his mouth opened to utter a derogatory remark, Potter's face brightened with recollection.

"It's a stone, right? Useful against poisons and can be taken in the stomach of a goat."

From Snape's expression one would think he had eaten a bunch of lemons. Narrowing his eyes, he stomped to the younger wizard and leaned over the desk, his breath reaching Harry's rapidly blinking eyes.

"You seem to know so much… What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"Umm…" Potter nibbled on his bottom lips, looking away. It was obvious he didn't know the answer to that one. None of them did.

Other than Tom, of course.

"They are the same plant," Tom heard himself say, much to his own astonishment. He added, "Sir. With all due respect, I don't mind revising the material at the beginning of the class. Unfortunately, we are yet to _learn_ what we need to revise."

Snape grimaced but didn't say anything to a student of his own House. His glares of doom, though, promised a long talk in the privacy of their common room.

"Well?" he barked at the students. "Why are you not writing it all down?"

_Obviously, you haven't told us to._

The same thought was running through everyone's heads but none of them dared to voice it aloud.

"Wow!" Greengrass exclaimed with wide eyes when they paired up to make a simple potion to cure boils. "I think you are my hero! None of Hogwarts students have ever tried to interrupt Snape when he is in the middle of tormenting some poor soul."

Tom shrugged at the compliment, once again not letting his smugness show. Whispers surrounded him once again no matter how hard Snape tried to silence the class. Only Malfoy, along with those brainless idiots flanking him, wasn't as thrilled. For reasons unknown, the guy liked Snape. And Crabbe and Goyle weren't that much of thinkers, opting to copy their 'leader' instead.

When the class was almost finished and Tom was walking up to Snape's desk to turn in the sealed flask with a perfectly-made Boils-Curing Potion, he caught Potter's eyes staring back at him.

The hesitance of the smile Potter threw him didn't diminish its luminosity at all. Tom felt his heart skip a beat. He didn't know why he was feeling like that but, Merlin, to experience once more this pleasant warmth in his chest he was ready to tolerate hundreds of Snape-talks.


	4. Compulsive Consequences

**Chapter 3. Compulsive Consequences**

* * *

As predicted, Tom discovered the interior of Snape's office as soon as the evening came. The man stormed into the common room, where the boy was flipping through the pages of the Charms textbook along with Greengrass and Bulstrode, grabbed him by the elbow, and dragged to his private office for a Talk. Thankfully, not the sort parents gave.

The place mirrored the Potions Master's personality perfectly: the cold and the gloom lingered everywhere from the vials-filled niches in the walls to the stony surface of the floor, to the almost black wood of the furniture. It didn't even have an enchanted window, like all the corridors and rooms in the dungeons seemed to have – in its place Tom saw rows of bookshelves full of tomes.

_At least he seems to tidy up. There is no dust floating or lying around here._

Snape released Tom and strode to a straight-backed wooden chair that reeked of asceticism. He moved with a strange sort of grace, both brusque like a soldier's march and soft like a cat's steps.

_A man's walk is important; it tells a lot. One's habits, state of mind and state of health... I can know it all if I read it all the right way._

"Riddle!" Snape suddenly called out, and Tom had a sense of déjà vu. Through clenched teeth, the man ground out, "What do you think you are doing?"

"Standing, Professor Snape. Waiting." Tom adopted a mockingly innocent expression, his hands tucked behind his back.

He had been observing Slytherins all this time and figured out the way the House dynamics worked.

Outside the House, the quality of acting defined everything: Slytherins applauded skilful manipulators who controlled others as easily as they would move a chess piece on a board. Malfoy mesmerised the crowd with the tales of his father's machinations, which became a riveting story when spilt through his lips, and many whistled at Maura Zabini's creative murders, while Nott narrated tall tales of his father's rule in Wizangamot.

Pretence, fake, act – the words described Tom's housemates' modes of behaviour perfectly.

Of course, some – generally underclassman – stray Slytherin would be openly hostile with others, but they did not last long on the hierarchy staircase. Fighting in the corridors resulted in the loss of points, and an irritable prefect would love to show everyone involved the error of their ways. Tom had seen those guys in action once, and remained reluctantly impressed.

With their own, though...

Here the dynamics swapped for the complete opposite.

The strong won. Arrogance paraded around in every movement, while cheekiness and wit and daring prevailed against shyness and fear.

Obviously, those who drowned in unfounded conceit soon found themselves pushed off the imaginary social ladder, but if they proved themselves, they acquired a wealth of loyalty from the _crème de la crème_. And prove himself Tom would.

"I do not tolerate cheek, Mr. Riddle," Snape began in soft tones. He didn't shout, but Tom tasted danger in the air all the same. "And you do not possess your classmates' connections to stop me from landing you in detention for the rest of your schooling."

A scornful smile flickered across Tom's face.

"You're right, professor, I don't. But you will have a hard time justifying an endless array of detentions when I'm a model student."

"The academic year has just begun, Riddle. Unless you have developed Seer abilities overnight – which cannot happen, since they pass along Light lines, not going to upstart muggleborn brats – nothing guarantees your remaining in the 'genius' position," Snape retorted sharply as a nasty smirk bloomed on his face.

" _I_ can guarantee myself that, and it's enough."

Only confidence shone through in Tom's voice. He believed in himself. If others didn't, they could blame themselves. Snape narrowed his eyes.

"Presumptuous little knobhead," the man hissed threateningly, leaning over the table and furrowing his eyebrows. To Tom, he resembled an overgrown thundercloud. "Hogwarts' curriculum is riddled with obstacles that only the diligent and the intelligent can surpass. It is not even insolence but naivety speaking when you claim to be brilliant."

"I know I am, and my classmates are coming to know this, too," Tom said simply. "I impressed even other Houses today and, if anything, you should be happy with me, dear _Head of Slytherin House_."

When Tom stressed the professor's title, Snape looked as if his face was twisted by a powerful toothache.

Tom ignored the pang in his chest.

"You are cavorting with other Houses."

"Slytherins value the forging of connections," Tom easily ping-ponged back. "You said it yourself: I'm not influential. Simply an orphan with no connections. Shouldn't you praise my desire to rise, Professor Snape?"

"Choose another family, then." Snape levelled him with a considering look, for once forgetting to sound condescending. "Speaking with my godson will bring you a lot of prestige, Riddle, if he likes you."

"Your godson?" Tom blinked. Snape had a _family_?

The man let out a put-upon sigh before muttering, "Muggleborn. Of course." He lifted his head to look straight at Tom and said sharply, the sound akin to a drum beat in the night, "Draco."

Tom snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. He walked to an armchair that engulfed him like shadows as soon as he primly landed in it.

Snape didn't comment on it even if Tom hadn't asked for permission, but he continued with an unpleasant smile, "Of course, my godson will want your respect-"

"And a huge chunk of my pride," Tom interrupted with a scoff. Snape inclined his head in agreement, vicious triumph swimming in his black eyes.

"True."

Tom shook his head. "I can get it all with other wizards supporting me, too. No sacrifices on my part involved, no listening to Malfoy's whinging."

"You believe that the Potter boy will give you more?" Snape asked coldly. "Don't fool yourself. Even if he could, the Potters are selfish creatures who never care to extend a hand without their own gain. Unless you give him something in return, Potter will not care to help you in any way nor offer you his fickle friendship."

Despite being aware of the erroneousness of Snape's words, Tom still sucked in every drop of new information like a sponge. All the implications exploded in Tom's mind.

"You hate him," he said simply. At first he had believed that Snape disliked Potter because of the other being a clever Ravenclaw who stole points from the Slytherin House, but the more he talked with the man, the more he saw a fuller picture.

Snape's hatred ran personal.

The past dictated the present, and Tom ached to discover the events which had led to the current state of affairs.

The older Slytherin's lips spread in a tight-lipped smile, as cold as Arctic breeze.

"You have assured me that your ego is in a nice condition, Mr. Riddle, assuming you have the right to declare such fantasies. I have not treated Potter any different from any other student outside of my house. I do not hate him in particular; I loathe everyone equally."

_Did he just try to make a joke?.. Obviously not. It's_ Snape _._

"Except for Slytherins."

"I never claimed to love _all_ my snakes." Snape stared pointedly at Tom. The boy mustered up a smirk and ignored that hollow feeling that spiked again. "I merely restrain myself when it comes to the loss of points from my own House. Yet I have no qualms about assigning detentions to those who act out of line or show open disrespect to me. And you are trying my patience, boy."

"I'm simply waiting for answers." Tom inclined his head, his dark eyes blinking innocently. "Is it not the job of a teacher to provide them?"

"I have offered you answers, and I have offered you advice," Snape responded in irritation. "What more do you want from me?"

"Why do you hate Potter?"

Because Tom always got his answers.

Snape snarled at the insistent niggling, and Tom's smirk widened.

"The discussion is over, Riddle. Vanish from my office this second-"

" _Why do you hate Potter_?"

And Tom pushed a torrent of magic into the question, like he had done with Greengrass in the Great Hall, and like he had done with the orphanage's inhabitants time after time. Triumph swelled in Tom's heart when he felt his power tingle in the atmosphere, and a gasp slipped past Snape's lips, and the boy envisioned all the delicious secrets he was going to cajole out of the man-

It didn't work.

Tom felt it immediately: as fast as he had summoned it, the magic evaporated. Its presence simply left; emptiness took the place of the control he usually experienced when he did that.

It didn't work.

_Why?_

Almost tangible tension hung in the air. Finally, Tom armed himself with enough bravery to meet Snape's stare dead on, no barriers raised because he could not pretend that nothing had happened. In the man's eyes he read a multitude of emotions, a vortex too colourful for the dark shades.

Shock.

Anger.

Intrigue.

Excitement.

Slight fear.

And... was that reluctant respect growing there?

For some reason, Tom felt nervous despite being sure that what he had attempted to perform didn't mean much in the Wizarding World. Indeed, wizards magically forced other wizards to do their bidding every day! Certainly!

(And yet the memory of Dumbledore's pursed lips when Tom had told him of his skill danced on the forefront of his mind, and he remembered a discussion about the importance of free will he had read in a text on magical theory, and suspicion crept in.)

_Calm down,_ Tom told himself. _I can probably pass it off as a burst of accidental magic if I care enough to. I simply asked a question. And simply tried to force him to reply. Surely, this is not a big deal at all?_

"Compulsion," Snape finally spoke to the room full of tension. His fingers gripped tightly a quill Tom hadn't noticed he held. "A first year, and it seems like you are already learning the spells on the wrong side of magic. Or, at least, what others would call the wrong side of magic."

"Compulsion?" Tom mused aloud to himself. "Yes, I suppose it can be called that, though I prefer the word 'persuasion'."

Snape sneered. "Persuasion means the option of free choice. Compulsion excludes it immediately."

"Doesn't necessarily exclude, professor," Tom corrected with a smirk. Lifting his chin, he continued smugly, "A person can throw it off if he has a strong mind."

Once, and only once before had another person deflected Tom's _magical_ charms.

"Not my fault that most people – even your precious Slytherins, sir – don't have it, and thus get- ah, persuaded to comply with whatever I want them to do."

Snape massaged his scrunched-up forehead before throwing a sharp look at Tom.

"Now, tell me who is the upperclassman imbecile that agreed to teach you the Arts."

"Excuse me? I'm perfectly capable of discovering and polishing my skills myself. Not to mention that no Slytherin would be caught dead with helping a 'mudblood'." Tom sneered at the insult. While it didn't really hurt him, he found the comparison with mud offensive and sought to rectify the way they addressed him in the near future.

He didn't wish to focus on that right now, because a flurry of concerns was plaguing his mind already: digging up those books about magical theory and free will, since what Tom did apparently counted as some "Arts"; figuring out Potter; fixing the way others treated him (he had to make them revere him); unveiling the secrets of the magical world...

At least, he had enough time to complete all his goals. He had lots and lots of time, and if his natural lifespan was shorter than the finish line to the fulfilment of his ambitions... he would _make_ it longer.

Tom saw no sense in being a wizard if he couldn't cure such a simple thing as death.

"And this is what we get for suppressing Dark Magic all the time; a dragon's load of preconceptions about these fine arts – and imbecilic children end up compulsing the mind out of others at random, too afraid to turn to the masters of the craft and get some informal schooling," Snape muttered to himself in irritation.

Confused by the new information, Tom blinked when the man rose to his feet, striding to one of the farthest bookshelves. His long finger trailed the spines of the books until it stopped at one of them. In a swift motion the man pulled out a thin brownish booklet of sorts without a title or any notable marks.

Flipping it open, Snape examined the table of contents before stretching his hand out to Tom. His eyes radiated cold despite the helpful gesture. Tom didn't expect them to soften.

The people of the orphanage hated him, and he didn't let it hurt.

His Head of House hated him, and he wouldn't let it hurt.

"Take this, Riddle, and read. Scrupulously, painstakingly, you _will_ transfer all the knowledge found here into your – allegedly – genius mind." Snape sneered as he ground out the last words. "If you have any plans at the end of the month, you will either shift them to another time or cancel them completely. I will not wait for you to sort out your childish trifles. You will arrive when I call you, and I will quiz you on everything you will have memorised by this time." Snape waved the book in front of Tom's nose.

The boy narrowed his eyes at the snide tone, but stamped down the urge to snap and scowl at the disrespect.

"You're helping me, then?" he asked instead.

_Even if he does, I doubt it is out of the goodness of his heart – if he has any, mind._

Tom didn't know whether he referred to the "goodness" or the "heart" in that phrase, but with Snape either worked.

"My aid comes with a cost, Mr. Riddle. I will gather the price when we discuss the matter again."

The smile on Snape's face didn't promise tea and crumpets. Not that Tom liked sweets, of course.

_Bring it on, old man. Whatever you throw at me, I'll be sure to thwart your cranky self._

Tom treaded carefully with other students at the moments, still unsure of their skill level, and he didn't have his favourite muggle victims with him to release stress, and he decidedly refused to think about the ever-mysterious Potter guy (who was probably enjoying himself while Tom was stuck with Snape, and resentment bubbled up in Tom's chest), so playing games with Snape sounded like a deal. Something to pass the time when learning got unbearably tedious.

Tom felt human only when he brought other humans down.

* * *

As soon as Severus had seen the boy, he had tasted the darkness of his magic. How could he not, when he met a fellow compulsor?

Light wizards mistakenly thought that when two Dark wizards met, their magic would welcome each other with a hug of kinship. How erroneous and typically naive. Then again, Light wizards strove to make the world more Hufflepuff, so even when a Dark wizard patiently explained matters, they still refused to believe that not all types of magic were kind to each other.

The wielders of Dark Arts viewed each other as rivals, and their magic fully adopted their opinions, and adapted itself to act accordingly: it would snarl, and threaten, and consume, and tear apart, if forces matched. If not, and if a correct ritual was invoked, the inferior power succumbed to the superior one, and the mind of the weaker wizard _distorted_. Just a little – but enough to secure at least some loyalty to the stronger mage.

Such was Dark Magic, both beautiful and horrifying, built on submission and control. Severus supposed it could be expected, considering that Dark Arts governed over the mind.

Thus, Tom Riddle had caught his interest immediately.

For the first time, Severus encountered someone in whom Dark Arts spoke louder than in himself. His magic had coiled around him in wary expectation during the entire lesson, and when later in his office Riddle had used compulsion on him, for a moment Severus actually feared that it would _work_.

Thank Salazar for small mercies. Snape and the humiliation at the hands of a dunderhead with no magical education on him did not combine well.

Yet...

His intelligent mind was calculating the possibilities the Riddle problem presented. Their society could do with another Slytherin leading figure. And Severus hadn't had a protégé since-

He grimaced.

-yes, since the Potter boy fiasco.

That was why Snape would wait this time. He wasn't going to show his interest until Riddle assured him of his competence.

A boy with such potential promised either ruin or prosperity, all depending on the influence on him during the years in which he formed his personality.

For once, Severus was planning to bring about positive changes.

* * *

On the second week of September Tom was already used to the flurry of owls delivering letters and packages to the fellow students. The boy himself had never received one, aside from his Hogwarts letter, but didn't let it faze him as he watched Malfoy gleefully open a box of house elves-made biscuits.

Tom was seated with his head facing the rest of the Hall, between a sleepy Greengrass and Zabini, who was whining to Nott about how unfair it was that they couldn't keep their own brooms. Malfoy wholeheartedly agreed with him, once again mentioning his father.

As usual, the talk flowed into the awed singing of praises to Lucius Malfoy and his countless merits.

_I wonder how many points will be taken from me if I hex him right now,_ Tom thought with irritation, piercing the tender meat on his plate with a little more force than intended.

He couldn't help it. In the past two weeks Tom knew all about the Malfoy family, up to the way Narcissa Malfoy was dressed on her son's third birthday.

Unfortunately, most curses were in the Restricted Section of the library – a fact Tom resented greatly. Why did they feel the need to deny students knowledge? And then had the gall to say that children weren't interested in anything scientific, when they themselves mercilessly strangled their drive by setting up boundaries. True, it wasn't the legal kind of sciences Tom was interested in, but still.

A regal-looking owl dropped a newspaper in front of Greengrass, who was sitting with her face buried in her arms. Tom almost sneered at the soft snores coming from her.

Without asking to – he didn't feel up for pleasantries – Tom grabbed the newspaper. His eyes immediately came across a headline on the front page that made his breathing shallow with anticipation.

Miracle Done Again! Healer Potter's New Potion!

The article spoke of something called 'apparition' and how that way of travelling brought along with it not only convenience but grave injuries as well. Tom leaned forward in interest as he read about people finding themselves with their limbs across the oceans because of some small mistakes.

The same was said about portkeys – a faulty portkey could leave a person with their head somewhere in Ireland, torso in Paris, arms in Boston, and nether parts in the Ukraine.

Tom found it vastly amusing. A girl sitting at the Ravenclaw table, Su Li or something, had an obvious way of showing her disagreement – by gasping in horror at the gory details and photos.

Healer Lily Potter apparently invented a way around splinching by creating a potion, which, if ingested before the apparition, worked as a kind of super glue and cemented a person's insides together. This way, even if the destination would be different from where they actually ended up, this person would at least be whole, without their limbs and intestines spread throughout the world. Tom didn't know half the properties of the ingredients mentioned in the articles but thought it was crafty enough.

His attention, though, was mostly snatched not by the article itself but by the photograph of the woman, who reminded him of a certain someone sitting at the Ravenclaw table with his nose buried in The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk. Tom berated himself for stal- observing the boy once again and decided to look at the moving photo once more.

The woman at the front mirrored greatly McGonagall in her mannerisms and even in appearance. The same stern lines around the eyes and proud straight back. Lily Potter also had a crimson mane of hair, and her brilliant green eyes had dancing sparks of warmth in them despite her otherwise rigorous appearance.

"Potters." Malfoy, who was sitting a couple of seats away from Tom, scoffed and glared at his half-finished goblet of pumpkin juice. "I bet they are enjoying the attention."

"What did they do this time?" Nott asked in interest, leaning across the table to take a look at Malfoy's issue of the Daily Prophet.

"Mrs. Potter did a good thing," Bulstrode said, looking aside from her Charms textbook. She was silent most of the time, talking only when she either didn't comprehend something or when it was coaxed out of her. "I don't understand why you are so miffed about it."

Zabini waved her off, taking a swig of water from his goblet to wash down the omelette.

"Don't mind him, Bulstrode. He is just annoyed that James Potter almost got his father jailed on one of the Auror raids."

Tom sent a disgusted sneer as Zabini was talking with his mouth full. Honestly, those people were purebloods. Aristocracy or something. Older Slytherins were good enough: cool, reserved, with sharp eyes speaking volumes of the intelligence behind them. Their younger counterparts, though…

Tom would have looked away from the pitiful picture if only the topic wasn't so engaging.

"From then on he hates all things Potter," Greengrass said through a yawn as she finally woke up.

"My godfather is against them, too!" Malfoy protested, glaring at them for not backing him like good little lapdogs. "My father and my godfather can't _both_ be mistaken!"

"Get a mind for yourself, Draco," Zabini said and wiped his mouth with a napkin, sending a look of pity at his friend. "Potter in our year is a decent enough bloke, and Lily Potter has done a world of good, too."

"How about we finish with the subject of Potters and go to the classroom?" Davis interrupted, for some reason looking fretfully at Nott. The latter was already standing with a closed off expression and speared Malfoy with a glower.

The blond noticed it and paled drastically, muttering a quick sorry and averting his eyes in shame.

Intrigued, Tom raised an eyebrow at Greengrass in a silent inquiry. The girl flushed at having his attention directed at her before clutching his shoulder and leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"Healer Potter helped Theo's father when he was on the verge of dying. He feels so thankful he hates it whenever someone badmouths any of them."

Her solemn expression twisted into an impish one as she whispered once more, "Draco can expect great talking-to from Lucius Malfoy, if Theo tips off his father. The Notts are as high up as the Malfoys, and old snakey Lucius would be forced to do something about his son's loud mouth."

Tom smirked in pleasure. He didn't like the boy's obnoxious personality. Malfoy deserved to be brought down a few notches.

Tom would most certainly enjoy the show if it happened.

* * *

In Harry's childhood his father used to tell stories about Hogwarts.

Funny stories, beautiful stories, wistful, and sad, and happy, and puzzling – day after day he would sit with his parents in Godric's Hollow and listen to his father's smooth baritone whispering of mischief and danger, while his mother laughed and stroked his hair, his head on her lap.

Those evenings had been a time of bonding for them, a reunion after a day of hurrying around with various separate tasks.

Harry used to wish for those quiet times to come back, everything to feel the embrace of a loving atmosphere

He used to wish-

_It doesn't matter now. From today on, I will create my own stories, and they will be no less riveting than James's._

A decision made, Harry slipped out of the Ravenclaw Tower in search of a story.

* * *

Down, down, down in the castle, another person roamed the dungeons in search of quiet place to appreciate the discoveries made in a thin dog-eared book, desperately hoping to avoid any adventures that night.


	5. Meeting Fate

**Chapter 4. Meeting Fate**

* * *

Harry strolled the nightly corridors of Hogwarts feeling like a shadow king: his domain stretched across the entire castle and no person hindered him, not even Filch with his nasty dust-gatherer Mrs Norris. Not that he disliked his roommates - they were all likeable chaps, although no one's company particularly thrilled him - but sharing the dorm with so many people drained him. He socialised gladly, but he welcomed a respite from it, too.

He didn't seek anything in particular. He only wished to reproduce James's adventures, at least just this once.

_Snap out of it,_ he told himself sternly with a little sigh. _Our personalities differ too much for me to resemble him in any way._

It had always been a point of contention between them, after all; this difference of opinions and views and tempers. Choice of friends, too: James despised "dirty" politicians like Regulus, never associated himself with them, even when it would be beneficial to his department.

Lily only supported her husband's point of view. While she healed everyone despite their affiliations with either Dark or Light, she returned with her mouth in a tight straight line each time she had to heal a Lestrange or a Rosier. Especially a Lestrange – the two women's shouting matches were legendary at St Mungo's and outside. Harry's mother also frequently met up with prominent muggleborns and even Light icons in her spare time, and in his childhood Harry used to scowl at Headmaster Dumbledore for snatching his parents away like that. He had even lashed out at the poor old man once and bit his wrinkled hand when the professor grabbed his mother's arm to drag her away into the fireplace and then his "evil lair" at Hogwarts!

A blush dusted his cheeks pink. Regulus had laughed his arse off, but Dumbledore now winked mischievously every time he saw him in the halls. Merlin, was that embarrassing!

Harry, consumed by ponderings and drunk on memories, barely noticed how he wandered into the dungeons. What mysteries dwelt there? He longed to find out; while Regulus often assumed that Harry needed friends and thus took him to various gatherings where they played social butterflies, he always scoffed at exploring the unknown, thus leaving Harry with no choice but to be stuck in the familiar setting of a multitude of manors despite preferring rare trips to magical districts and communities instead. So, whenever Harry managed to sneak away from his escort and breathe in freedom (usually with the help of Rabastan or Sirius), he spent the following days engulfed in calmness and contentment. Then, he was dragged to another party.

Regulus Black was a practical man who appreciated stability. Harry was an adventurer at heart.

_Don't want the chance of Snape bumping into me though_ , the thought popped into his mind. The House would never forgive him for all the docked points-

He felt the magic rather than heard the sound of the steps. Frantically searching for a hiding place, Harry's sight drifted across an armoury, and he ducked behind it.

He recognised the aura, of course he did. Harry never forgot the feel of one's magic once he tasted it. Murky brown with a sprinkle of diluted blue...

Why was Professor Quirrell stalking the dungeons like a delinquent instead of the respectable teacher he was?

_Well, would be respectable, if anyone actually respected him._

The man, fidgety and nervous and resembling a critter more than a human, glanced around. He had discarded the weird turban he occasionally donned, and now stood in all his bald-headed glory.

When the professor reassured himself that no one was watching – and damn, did their Defence professor not cast any detection spells? What were his parents paying for? – he called out just loud enough for it not to be a whisper but quieter than a shout.

"Baron!"

Harry held his breath, although a gasp of surprise threatened to escape his lips. Surely, the man wasn't summoning the Bloody Baron! Come on, it was _Quirrell_ -

Harry halted.

His judgement was influenced by the man's lessons, the way his teacher held himself, and walked, and talked, and behaved.

Useless, his more obvious traits screamed. Cowardly. Weak. _Harmless_.

Yet the magic told Harry a whole other story. It always gave out people's power level with the way it pulsed, flowed and crawled out of its confining body. It sometimes revealed a person's state of mind, too: when a wizard or a witch worried or fumed, their magic replicated their emotions, acting agitated or, on the contrary, vivacious. Thus, Harry saw through most people's lies when he needed to.

Quirrell didn't lie, per say, but he certainly hid the extent of his magic. And he certainly hid his true nature: the man Harry covertly spied from his hiding place didn't act like the same brainless pushover from the class, albeit he didn't look Snape-confident either. Just an average man, Harry supposed, but the contrast still struck him. Everything seemed more striking in contrast.

"Baron!" the professor snapped in that sharp whisper again, and once again received only silence in reply. Harry didn't dare breathe too loud in his hideaway. "We made a deal, ghost. Come out; I know you hear me!"

Only silence.

Quirrell cursed under his breath. "That _bloody_ -"

"Yes, yes, I remember all about my… accessory," a chilling voice filled the silence of the corridor. Harry's breath hitched in his throat as his vision caught the ghost lazily floating towards his Defence professor. "You should thank Magic that I am in no tangible state to give you claim to the same decoration. Then again, my snakes are always ready to maim at my command."

Harry shivered. Refrained from bracing himself, for the chill was spreading throughout the hall and reaching even the darkest cobweb-covered corners, nooks and crannies. Even though ghosts were no material beings and couldn't logically influence bodily temperature except for when a person passed through them, the stronger ones, the 'elite' of the ghost-folk could stretch themselves into patches of mist.

The phantom's grey eye flickered to him when a misty tentacle brushed his leg. Harry jerked back into the wall, a gasp stifled in his throat, but the Bloody Baron only quirked his lips in an eerie attempt at a smile. It looked like the grin of a Gringotts goblin when the creature fantasised about merrily slaughtering the customers. The boy couldn't imagine him wooing girls when he still lived.

"You're very hard to hunt down, especially for a ghost that is rumoured to never leave his dungeons. The Hogwarts underground is not that big."

The Baron inclined his head.

"There are more hiding places accessible to ghosts than to humans. You lot are so squeamish and picky… You never see the true beauty of withering plants or hear the song of dying breath or enjoy growing pools of blood around your feet." His nose flared as he breathed in. Harry didn't doubt for a second that the ghost was dragging all his long-forgotten feelings back to surface and indeed seeing, and hearing, and enjoying. He shuddered. "None of you ever dare to enter the torture chambers, which still bear signs of use despite your Headmaster's meagre attempts to wash away death's trails. So few remember that Hogwarts was a prison once."

A flinch. Hands flying to his temples, Quirrell regained his bearings.

"Very poetic. And the stuff remembers. Come visit the next teachers' meeting with Argus present; Mrs Norris and wet dreams of chains fully substitute a wife for him."

Harry's ears burnt red. He so did not want to hear the particulars of Mr Filch's dream life.

The Baron nodded. "A fascinating fellow. It is truly a shame that he was born in a wrong time in a magic-less body, otherwise he would have fit in with Salazar's ilk. And you might know, but you can't _remember_. You were not there when I lived, and missed most of the entertainment. Ah, it's such a pity I cannot cast my voice in Wizengamot to relish students' screams again."

"I think you're mixing something up. It's only prisoners and hostages who experienced the comfort of the lower dungeons, never the students. Not to mention that, judging by the rumours, Slytherin common room isn't bereft of screams. Anyway, I haven't spent half my sleeping time just to listen to you recall your dearest corpses. We're here to discuss the diadem, if you will."

_Thump_. Heart fluttering in his chest, Harry gripped the armour harder in excitement.

A mystery! A week, and he was already gathering blackmail material. Regulus would be so proud.

The ghost, on the other hand, flickered away for a moment to show his displeasure.

"Oh. How disappointing. Objects don't fascinate me. I'm far more interested in people."

"All of them dead, I'm sure."

What Harry took as a mere quip on the professor's part aggravated the Bloody Baron. The ghost's upper lip lifted in a frosty sneer. The bloodstains suddenly glimmered brighter and more ominously in the shadow cast by the torches. Harry didn't look away, and inside he knew that the dance of stains hypnotised him enough to keep watching even had he not wanted to.

"It has been four long years that you have been pestering me about that cursed artefact," the ghost said after a long pause.

"Because you sent me down the wrong path!" Quirrell yelled. When the echo carried the sound through the corridor, he cringed. His bald head glistened with sweat. "You forced me to fight vampires! You forced me to scour Magic-forsaken barren lands and abandoned warehouses! You forced me to interrogate that blasted hag-"

"Ah, idiot boy. I never told you to interpret my clues incorrectly," Baron drawled. The rage was gone. Amusement replaced it again. Harry felt those were the two emotions that prevailed in the ghost's lif- erm, whatever they had after dying. Merlin, he just hoped he would never become a ghost himself. It'd be so dreadful. He'd be a glum little phantom peeking into merry houses during festive times, watch families there, and cry in bouts of emotional masochism – all ghosts carried their major longings into their post-mortem existence.

"Someday, I'll find a way to force you to tell me," Quirrell's promise resonated with helpless rage. He whirled on his heels and stalked off. The Bloody Baron's chortles followed him to the stairs along with a whispered, "The generations of wizards since the Founders have tried it."

Harry waited until the ghost dissipated before stumbling out from behind the armour, patting the iron guy on the metal gloves in thanks. His head filled with questions and answers he discarded, the boy half-pranced to the tower…

Until a screeching meow stopped him mid-step.

He turned around and was greeted with vertical irises on yellow that glowed in the dark. Scary eyes on a furry face.

"You look as charming as ever, Mrs Norris," Harry muttered and held out his hands with a nervous grin. "I like to take my strolls alone, though, without you or your dapper caretaker-"

The blasted cat hissed at him, turned around and ran in the opposite direction. Harry didn't need Sherlock Holmes' deductive abilities to realise who was going to come next. Instead, he sprinted.

Ugly cries of "Students out of bed!" followed him at his heels as he ran past armours, tapestries, and doors. Finally managing to shake off his tail, Harry jumped to the nearest door and pushed it open. He expected dust bunnies, cobwebs, and the local poltergeist...

He didn't expect to bump into someone.

Green eyes met dark brown; familiar purple magic flared in surprise, alarm, recognition, and something else entirely.

One blink – and he was falling.

* * *

After half an hour of roaming the dungeons Tom came across an abandoned classroom which suited his purposes perfectly. Hogwarts held many of those, but Tom nitpicked every little thing from the abundance of dust to the flimsy chairs and tables. His standards soared as high as ever, after all, and he never relinquished them or brought the plank down. Fortunately, an ancient castle hit the benchmark.

As soon as a classroom that suited him revealed itself, Tom spent the next hour enlightening himself about the basics of Dark Magic. The little book turned out to hold nothing spectacular; certainly no spells summoning a waterfall from the tip of his wand to destroy humankind, and no masses-enslaving rituals. It was mostly about meditation and protecting the mind even from internal influences, such as those of one's own magic. The book prepared a Darkling to fully use their powers without the danger of falling prey to insanity so common with their folk.

Pure theory in dry form. With a foot of parchment and a quill he had taken, Tom jotted down a paragraph on the differences between Light and Dark types of magic.

_Dark Magic calls out to the mind. It controls a person's wishes, desires, fears, hopes. Drives to madness and destroys the personality both of the caster and the recipient of a spell. Actually, in many cases it is the caster who suffers more, since while the victim might get rid of the effects of a single curse or a ritual performed on them, the caster remains with the taint dwelling in their heart forever unless cleansed with sacrifice and rituals._

_A change of heart, though, costs a lot in the matters of the loyalty to a certain magic-type. Magic, both Dark and Light, does not tolerate betrayal or hesitation. When somebody decides once and for all to which category they belong, there is no turning back. It is possessive. The only exception is when someone born Dark comes to Light and vice versa, but even then they are unlucky and are tried by the higher forces. There are even societies of wizards who refuse to cast any magic but that which their birth or allegiances dictate, but they are not a majority due to the difficulties that come with maintaining such a lifestyle. Dark communities are feared and despised._

_One of the main reason for this revulsion is that while Light is mainly physical and one can mostly heal the consequences, the consequences of mind magic are much harder to get rid of, sometimes even completely impossible._

On that optimistic note Tom finished writing and took a moment to admire his spidery scrawl. It wasn't yet perfection, but he was working on it.

The first chapter of the book elaborated on the physical-mental differences and gave some examples on when a Dark wizard cast powerful spells without any regard to the peculiarities of his magic and paid for it, most often with his sanity. The author had put such passages to dissuade the weak-minded from pursuing the Arts, most likely, but Tom never wavered in his goals and convictions.

He brushed upon the second chapter, which told about meditation, and mentioned Occlumency and Legilimency. The point the author repeated the most was that any wizard, Light or Dark, but especially the latter, had to find their magical core before delving deeper into stronger incantations.

Tom yawned and gathered his things into a pocket in his robes, ready to continue searching for his magical core in bed.

He pulled the door open – and he was pulled down by heavy weight to the stone floor.

* * *

Funny how things worked. One moment Harry was rushing inside, and a second of darkness later he was lying on something warm but certainly not comfortable. Nothing like sofas in the common room nor the armchairs of his home. His fingers clutched cotton fabric he didn't wear, while his wrist brushed small flat surface of a book.

Softly, he sighed before making himself comfortable. If he was waiting for Filch to disappear, he could wait with comfort. Of course, the Riddle boy he was lying on probably didn't feel the same comfort, but he had likely acquired a concussion after Harry's spectacular fall and was now out of it, and the entire evening had drained Harry of all energy. He wasn't up to dragging a knocked-out guy to the infirmary through the vigil of the dreaded Mrs Norris and sects of Dark upperclassmen who gathered weekly for some practice. Maybe later. He could tip someone off in the morning.

Riddle, though, acted as inconsiderately as his behaviour in class suggested. Struggling for air, he shoved Harry off him. The smaller boy cracked his eyes open to glare down at the Slytherin. A pause.

"You are welcome to accommodate yourself further," Riddle drawled, managing to talk with dignity even when dust framed his body and his hair lay tangled on the ground. "Go on, sleep, rest, whatever. I obviously have nowhere to be at one o'clock in the morning."

Harry blinked and flushed a bit at his egoism. The moment of laziness had passed and now guilt munched on him. That's why Uncle Sirius always told him to deal with people only when sober, and for Harry, who had never consumed anything heavier than butterbeer, fatigue equalled alcohol.

Still, he replied flippantly, "Um, no, thanks. You are about as comfy as a skeleton. I think your hipbones have made a hole somewhere in my bottom. Ever thought about gaining weight?"

Saying that, Harry demonstratively stood up with a pinched expression on his face that he copied off Draco Malfoy, the sod who raised constipated grimaces into an art form. He didn't manage to keep it for long, eyeing Riddle's aura of magic instead.

Gorgeous.

Magic, not Riddle.

The Slytherin didn't remain on the floor for long after the weight lifted.

"Indeed. My life's ambition is to transfigure myself into a pillow, Potter, so I can be about as useless as Crabbe and Goyle and justify it."

Harry snickered. Mirth in his eyes, he watched as Riddle straightened his shirt Harry had grabbed and sternly brushed dark brown hair with his fingers. The faint grimace on his face lamented the absence of a hairbrush. Those eyes, not quite glaring but still intense, didn't leave Harry's for one moment.

It reminded Harry of the same gaze he had felt during the classes and breakfasts they shared, and how uncomfortable it had made him feel. Suddenly, smiling didn't appeal so much. No one had ever paid such attention to _him_ before.

"Nah, don't think so." Harry shrugged. "Those two would rather be an oven. Or a rubbish bin in the kitchen of some fancy Rosier manor."

Tom hummed in response. The staring was getting freaky, and the magnificent magic didn't save the day anymore. Harry strained his ears to catch the sound of any footsteps that signalled Filch's approach. All was silent, the classroom and the hallways. Yet Harry wanted to stay on the safe side for once.

Keeping up a dialogue of sorts it was, then.

"Wait, you remember my name?"

Harry had memorised Tom Riddle's name, of course, because knowing of such powerful people inside the walls of the same castle he resided in always worked wonders on one's health, as well as the names of his housemates, but it was too early in the year to learn everyone's names and faces. And the clout of Harry's family paled in comparison with that of Nott's, Zabini's, Malfoy's, Smith's, and their lot.

His eyes narrowed.

Did Riddle have an ulterior motive for defending him from Snape that day? Several motives?

All right, Riddle was a Slytherin, so cunning scheming was a given in most cases. Personal experience with some of Uncle Reg's acquaintances had taught him well and doused him with a healthy dose of paranoia. Not Moody-level paranoia for now, but good enough.

"Potter, I _am_ a genius," Riddle deigned to reply. He threw such a humbling glance at Harry that the boy's cheeks heated again. He resisted the urge to shuffle. He resisted the urge to ask Riddle inappropriate questions about family and whether he really was a muggleborn as well. "I reckon my memory is better than anyone's here. I don't see anything impressive in this fact when you know my name just as well."

Harry huffed in incredulity. The guy wasn't serious, was he? Did he actually believe that the whole of Hogwarts paid attention to him?

"Right." Harry dropped on a frail-looking chair and prompted Tom to do the same. In a minute both of them were facing each other with the teacher's desk separating them. Their knees touched but neither boy minded; the staring-game was way too fun. When Harry refused to blink, Tom grinned faintly "I prefer people to call me by my given name, by the way. 'Potter' is my dad at work, and my mum is resigned to be called 'Lils' everywhere but at hospital. And I like 'Harry'."

Riddle – or should he call the other 'Tom' now? – shot him an indecipherable look and inclined his head. The mantle-like magic on his shoulders flared for a moment, leaving Harry breathless in the glory of its flying sparks which fell down like the aftermath of fireworks. He wanted to decode the emotions Tom felt, but his mouth was talking before he could do it.

"And you're the creep who stares at me during the lessons." Harry nibbled on his lower lip when he realised how accusing and ungrateful that sounded. Tom's face darkened ominously in proof. "Sorry. I wanted to say 'the guy', of course. And I still haven't thanked you for saving me from Snape, even though it's useless 'cause he'll do the whole dumbing-poor-Harry-down thing again."

Tom, whose unmoving gaze had flickered for a moment at the word 'stared', smirked.

It was only a tad more reassuring than the Bloody Baron's smile.

"I'll save you again like the damsel in distress you are."

"Am I the only one here who finds it disturbing that a Slytherin is relating to a noble hero?"

"I thought you would be more disturbed by the fact that _you_ are not the one playing hero, O Great Auror's son."

Good mood snapped in the air when Harry was once again regarded as merely an extension of his parents. The veneer of refreshing banter off, the whole misery of his situation returned to Harry. He was once again a downtrodden little boy who had gone off in search of adventure to tell his dad about and who had found more adventures than he had time for. A boy hated by his former mentor, and who spent more time in memories rather than in dreams of a glorious future – mostly because Harry had no idea what future he _wanted_ to have.

It was so depressing that he could start sobbing and screeching before offing himself in a men's loo and becoming a ghost to balance out Moaning Myrtle. Then he would spend his eternity thinking up gloomy aphorisms about death, pranking with Peeves, meeting up with the Bloody Baron, and competing with Myrtle as to who out-wails the other.

Wait, hadn't he already thought that he would never become a ghost a while ago?

Tom cottoned on to the change of the mood and decided to talk business.

"Snape has reamed into me, by the way."

Yeah, way to go, Riddle. Now a pang of guilt resonated in Harry's heart. Even if the other's staring tendencies disconcerted him slightly, he never wished for anyone to endure Snape's spiteful rants and morbid punishments. The greasy-haired man probably rooted with Filch to make corporal punishment legal.

"Ouch. That guy can get pretty bad. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's a half-Dementor: a billowing black cloak, cold touch, the feeling of utter despair and hopelessness around him – sounds like our Snape all right."

Tom smiled. A barely noticeable, but it was there. Harry's gaze, usually sharp but now drowsy with sleepiness, caught disbelief from Tom at his own twitch of lips. Not surprising. From what the Ravenclaw had seen, the guy mostly smirked in that smug way that made Draco's white peacocks drop from envy, or wore a scowl of such malicious intent that even an inferius would re-think biting him and would rather go gather flowers somewhere far away.

"It's fine. I certainly expect a nice little favour from you, but it's fine," Tom said after a moment. Harry's brows furrowed.

"You don't do this Gryffindor thing."

"Are you colour-blind to mistake green for red? And which one?"

"Doing something nice without waiting for payback," Harry patiently explained. He spread his palms to for emphasis. Tom looked vaguely alarmed.

"There seriously exist people who don't expect that nowadays?" He blinked slowly. "You haven't considered that perhaps there live too many pink unicorns in your micro-world? I'll help you kill them off, if you wish, for some more favours."

Harry shook his head, stifling a smile at how genuinely shocked his new… whatever looked. "Yeah, if I had any, they'd drop dead after a minute of talking to you. Well, Slytherins. I can offer you some home-made biscuits if you want; our house-elf sends a box of them along with Chocolate Frogs every week. The next package should arrive tomorrow at breakfast, so yum!"

Tom regarded him with an inclined head. Harry's eyes observed the fascinating way he arched his brows: not too high and very slow, almost as if in slow-motion.

" _House_ elf? The name doesn't imply we're talking about Tolkien's pretty blonde sidhe here… Irrelevant. Speaking about the favour you owe me, I was talking more along the lines of you sharing the secret of how you made such a good potion after you changed the steps four, six, and seven, not to mention foregoing the steps nine to twelve. All powers of logic and common sense tell me it should have exploded and wiped all the people in the classroom plus Snape off the face of the earth… but it didn't-"

"My mother's recipe," Harry chimed with a shrug. "She's celebrated as a Charms genius, but she also shone at Potions. She left a ton of those neat notes about improving her potions – told me it was a challenge between her and her friend back at school." He grimaced at the memory of which friend exactly. "Shouldn't have used them though. She naively believes that even after she told me about them they're still safely in her chest of drawers back at the manor, and now Snape will tattle to her. I doubt he'd believe me if I say that I've woken up a Potions prodigy."

"Will she punish you?"

Harry's eye twitched.

"…Please do me a favour of not sounding so delighted."

Laughter bubbled in his throat, but he didn't let it out because they both heard faint footsteps. Both boys held their breaths as someone patrolled the hallways before the sound faded. Harry dropped his head onto the desk and sighed.

"Merlin, this night is going to be the death of me. I don't suppose I'm kamikaze enough to go to the Charms Club tomorrow first thing in the morning."

Tom leaned across the desk, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

"Charms Club?"

Harry raised his head. "Professor Flitwick hasn't come to you yet? Oh, he probably thought to do it next week." He forced himself to sit up and keep up eye contact with Tom, adopting a teacher-mode. "Well, there's the choir, the Quidditch team, the gobstones club, some-other-whatsit-club… and then there's the Charms Club. Professor Flitwick is the current head, and the attendees are mostly Ravenclaws, although other Houses are just as welcome." Harry smirked. "We like flaunt our intellectual superiority to everyone, after all. Anyway, we meet up and we learn and cast charms. Delve into more theory, too. That's about it. Tomorrow's the first gathering, but you can join at any time."

Tom licked his lips, and Harry recognised that power-hungry spark in the boy's eyes.

"I want to go with you," he demanded, almost snapped.

"Of course," Harry responded calmly. "As I told you, Professor Flitwick was likely going to offer it to you anyway. Will it be enough as a favour if I take you there?"

Of course not. If Tom Riddle resembled Regulus in any way, he would milk the situation.

"Of course not." Dark eyes narrowed almost in offence. "I'd like you to share your mother's notes. If she was a Charms Mistress, she probably has those notes, too, right? Or something of sorts. And I will continue holding Snape back from you during the next lessons so long as you give me them."

"You… You're not afraid of him?"

That was a first. Most people ran away screaming at the mere hint that they'd have to deal with the dungeon bat. But... Most people didn't have such intelligence and drive at such a young age.

Most people didn't practise Dark Magic alone with no mentor to cushion that journey.

Harry identified the brownish book under Tom's robes with ease. Could even point out the notes he had made in the beginning chapters.

Tom didn't reply, only snorted, but Harry didn't expect him to.

"We can meet in the library at eight tomorrow and discuss the specifics," Harry offered. "The meeting is due at nine, so I'm waiting for you till eight thirty at most."

Tom conceded to those term with a nod of his head. They sat in silence, both weary and dreaming of a bed, and stood up simultaneously. Harry hadn't learnt the wand movements for the Tempus charm yet, but the depth of nightfall beyond the cobweb-covered dirty windows gave him an inkling that Filch and Mrs Norris had retreated to their shared lair and wouldn't stalk the halls in search of prey.

"Oh, and I'll apologise for falling on you in the morning," Harry finally remembered. "I could do it now, of course, but I'm rather tired, so not really sorry, and I like my sorrys to be actually… well, sorrys. Sincere, I mean. So, tomorrow it is." Harry yawned, partly to emphasise his point and partly because he wanted to do so.

"I'll hold you to your promise," Tom conceded generously after reflecting for a moment. "Tomorrow you'll grovel at my feet and apologise repeatedly. Don't forget your mother's Potions and Charms notes, or I'll forget the word 'forgiveness'."

"What about the biscuits?"

"…I'll forget the word without them, too."

* * *

Notes on the Chapter:

1) Quirrell. He plays quite the big role in the fic, especially in the first part (years 1-4). Hagrid called him a 'brilliant mind' and Voldemort found some inner darkness in him to call out to, so I think he might be a rather fascinating person even without the whole two faces deal. Besides, the whole Muggle Studies professor and later travel business flowed just perfectly in one of the main subplots, so I green-lighted the idea to grant him more personality than in the initial variant.

2) Harry. He seems like an angsty sod, doesn't he? Don't worry, it's not for long :p At the moment he just feels rather pointless because, contrary to the canon Harry, Hogwarts isn't much of a new environment for him, he doesn't have a world to save, and he's rather pressured by the expectations of different people to fulfil different tasks there. But a chapter-two in there won't be any _time_ for him to angst anymore, thanks to Charms, Reg's task, new friends/enemies, and Quirrell and Baron. Not to mention that it's generally tough to properly angst around Tom when Tom doesn't like attention that's not concentrated on him.

3) Charms club. It's something canon-y, actually. At least, a Vicky Frobisher told the Quidditch team that it's higher on her list of priorities than Quidditch. The rest is creative licence.


	6. Spells for Sorcerers

**_Chapter 5. Spells for Sorcerers_ **

* * *

Before Tom safely escaped to the library for his meeting with Harry - and no, he so didn't bounce - he unfortunately bumped into Daphne Greengrass and Theo Nott. The blonde wore a short charcoal robe reaching her knees with saffron slacks underneath, while Nott put on long flowy purple robes. Both carried envelopes in their hands, the girl also holding owl treats in a delicate chiffon bag.

"Hey!" she greeted him. Rather brightly, even though her eyes were a bit bleary. Tom pulled on something of a smile.

"Good morning, Greengrass. You too, Nott."

"Can't say it's that good if I already see your face first thing in the morning. A bad omen, if I know one," the taller boy muttered, glaring at Tom. The blonde pinched his arm.

"Where are you going, Tom?" Greengrass asked. The flush on her face was ever-present and she twisted the corner of the yellow envelope in her fingers. Tom stifled a sneer. A crush. How weak-minded. The children in the orphanage always had them on each other.

"The library," he replied curtly. He threw a longing glance at the door, but neither of the other Slytherins noticed, Nott too busy fuming and Greengrass too busy letting out a disappointed sigh. The sleepy common room created a background music of light snores, and lazy talks between the upperclassmen already used to the regime.

"Pity," she muttered before stifling a yawn with her letter. "I'd have loved to join you after going to the owlery, but I'm allergic to libraries. Madame Pince's too nastily obsessed with her dusty treasures and, besides, the place is so awfully silent! Much better to do the homework here in the common room. You can always find a willing upperclassman... who perhaps has a debt to your family."

"Not that _willing_ , then," Nott pointed out. The girl waved him away.

"Never do something that someone else can do for you. My aunt says so and she's head of the Dolohov family."

"You sent some letters yesterday evening, didn't you? Why are you doing it again so soon?" Tom asked, eyeing the envelopes. "Why so many? You won't see your parents for a mere three months, you can't miss home so much."

Both Daphne and Nott stared at him. Tom coolly arched his brows; he hadn't breached any protocol with his questions, and he wanted answers.

"I'm sending letters to my sister, actually, not my parents," Greengrass said. After a little pause she smiled, longing swimming in her blue eyes. "I can't wait until I have her here in Hogwarts with me next year. We always did everything together, you know, even slept in the same bed-"

"Eww," Nott muttered with a grimace. Tom shared the sentiment.

"-so being here without her feels like I've ripped my heart out and left it there, arriving here as an inferius." She grabbed Nott's sleeve, who looked somewhat alarmed. "Well, at least we can write to each other every day. And then there's Professor Snape whose fireplace we can use to firecall each other once a week, you know."

Sadness still lingered in her eyes. She looked at Tom, who resisted the urge to step away. Surely, she didn't expect him to hug and comfort her, promising that she would reunite with her sister very soon and they'd be happy ever after?

Ugh, no. He was out of there.

"Oh. Well, I'm going to the library," he hastened to say, much to Nott's evident happiness. "I have a meeting with Pot- Harry."

He missed the look they shared.

* * *

"Being a Slytherin doesn't give you the right to be late," Harry snapped at Tom the moment the Slytherin arrived. The green-eyed boy perched upon the edge of a desk that looked about ready to swallow his tiny form whole. His legs swung just inches above the ground in agitated, irritated motions, the brown leather boots thumping against the ancient mahogany of the table.

Tom swept the messy piles of books and rolls of parchment with a cursory look that sharpened once he took in the titles. All the material went in depth about ghosts, encounters with them, exorcism, and modes of protection.

_I really hope Harry isn't some paranormal-activities enthusiast. Still... at least he reads a book. This is more than I can say for half of the idiots here._

Tom's disdain of others only intensified when a paper plane, transfigurated from an inkwell by a pair of identical redheads, landed not far from him.

"No, but it gives me the right to be misunderstood, and misunderstood people are justified when they are rude. Just ask any Hufflepuff," Tom responded with a shrug. 8:36. Mentally, he pierced Greengrass with the arrows of his annoyance - because obviously he couldn't be angry at himself for stopping to chat instead of batting her away immediately - but, despite being delayed by their encounter, he couldn't be seen running down the corridors or hurrying to meet Potter, so his dignified saunter brought him to the meeting place a bit too slowly.

Harry stared at him, his mouth hanging open for a moment before a scowl closed it.

"You really seem to believe that, don't you."

"Anyway, shouldn't we hurry? I doubt that Professor Flitwick would wait for every single stray student. We're being dreadfully late. And you're not Slytherin enough to be forgiven for _your_ rudeness."

Harry sputtered even as he jumped down and gathered some notes into his bag, sticking them inside carelessly before they started to walk out of the library towards the Charms classroom. "Oh, so it's _my_ fault we're late, now?"

"Glad that you understand the situation, Harry." Tom smiled sweetly. All sweet smiles showed teeth. "Don't look like that. Don't forget you've promised me your mother's notes, biscuits, and a sorry. I can show you my bruises later in the bathroom so you'll see how much damage your ghastly fall brought me yesterday."

"It's not like I dreamed about jumping on you, Riddle," Harry muttered with a scowl. His eyes seemed particularly bright that day, as if lit up by an inner fire. Tom also noted that he seemed to constantly gravitate towards him and stare at his shoulders and spine with that bedazzled expression that both flabbergasted him.

"You just weren't aware of this, but your subconsciousness fulfilled your wish anyway."

Harry tossed him a dirty look.

"You know, no one would punish you if you responded without a quip for once?"

Tom smirked. "And where would the fun in it be?"

Harry just huffed even though his eyes twinkled, uncomfortably not unlike the Headmaster's. Tom stared at them and marvelled at its similarity to that colourful picture of a curse he read in the little book about Dark Arts.

Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse. Intangible, deadly, bizzarrely beautiful.

The concept caught him in its web. The gleam of Harry's eyes only reminded him further of those dreams he had.

* * *

Their feet carried them to the Charms classroom. A small crowd dallied by the doors, and Harry and Tom arrived just in time for Professor Flitwick to appear with a jolly smile and beckon them all in. Harry pointedly ignored Tom's whisper, "See? Just in time. You owe me one for all that nagging that we would come late." The guy's conceit overflowed the acceptable limits.

Harry immediately noticed that most of his fellow Ravenclaws attended the club meeting, as well as a Gryffindor girl, a couple of Slytherins (he faintly smiled at Tracey Davis and raised his eyebrows at Blaise Zabini) and three Hufflepuffs (he waved at Ernie McMillan, Lilian Moon, and Susan Bones). He bounced to the front of the classroom, dragging Tom with him by the hand, and plopped on a seat nearest to the Professor.

"I love the front row," Harry confessed brightly. He turned his head to Tom and blinked at the way the other boy stared at his wrist, ad if he couldn't decide whether to disinfect it or something else. Harry burst out laughing. "You're so precious, Riddle! You look about to faint because I've touched you?"

Tom sneered, turning his head so that only Harry could see his disdainful expression.

"If you want someone to go wherever you want them to go, Potter, you have to ask."

"Well, it worked anyway-"

"Now, now, boys," Professor Flitwick interrupted with a clap. He climbed a hill of books so that everyone could see him. Winking at Harry and Tom, he said, "I'm sure you can talk it out at lunch. The house elves serve some wonderful chocolate banana bread today, so be prepared to walk away from the Great Hall with your pockets full of treats. Now, let's get some charmswork done!"

He paused in his exuberance for a moment, taking in the number of students. His face fell.

"Oh, it seems like Ms Granger isn't going to come. What a pity. Miss Patil- Ms Parvati Patil, that is," he addressed the only Gryffindor girl, "did you pass the word to your classmate?"

The girl sat just behind Harry, so once he turned, he saw her blush and stammer, "Y- yeah, of course. She told me she had things to do."

Professor Flitwick lowered his head a bit. "Hm, it's not like I can force students to attend. How strange. To me it seemed like she would pounce on the opportunity... Oh well."

Harry overheard Parvati whisper to her twin, "I didn't tell her because she's so overbearing all the time! She always has this long-suffering look on her face whenever I talk to Lavender and she annoys me so much! And she harps about our homework constantly. Honestly, the school year's just begun, but she's planned her entire study schedule up to her NEWTs!"

Harry frowned. Indeed, this Hermione Granger irritated quite a lot of people, from his observations, but Harry believed firmly in everyone getting the same opportunities. This could be helpful for her future job or something, and to make her pass on the chance to join seemed a bit too cruel for the small level of inconvenience she caused. He wouldd have to invite her some time later, perhaps after a class or in the library - she seemed to claim it for her living space already.

That resolved, he concentrated on Professor Flitwick, who told them about the material they would be learning in the club.

"Most of the spells we will be learning this year are included in your books, but we will not be going through them during the main lessons. Indeed, the primary point of existence of this club is to give you more time for supervised practice as well as an incentive to research the material in more depth- Yes, Ms Davis?"

"Does this mean there won't be any extra information at all?" the girl asked with a disappointed air about her.

Harry disagreed with that disappointment. The mandatory lessons dealt with the very basic spells, but the truly interesting stuff hid in the background of the curriculum, and going through all this material with the teacher would be much more efficient than learning everything on their own. Magical books were such a thing that one could spend years searching for a particular tip when a teacher could reveal it in five minutes.

The little man chuckled. "Oh, trust me, Ms Davis, you won't be bored even with what we have. Your textbook this year has a hundred spells in it. Each takes _at least_ two-three lessons to fully master, unless you disregard such details as casting time and exactness. Moreover, one of the main features of our club is the project at the end of every year. Each of you will be able to choose one of the spells from the book, or a group of spells and elaborate on them."

"What do you mean by elaborating?" Susan Bones asked from her place at Harry's left. The girl twirled the end of her reddish hair nervously. "Surely you can't mean spell-tweaking yet, because none of us know-"

"Oh, no, my dear! If you work with the Cutting Spell - Diffindo, that is - you could try to develop how precise you are and carve into the wood with it. You haven't even brushed upon Runes or Arithmancy, so the basics of spell-making and, consequently, spell-tweaking, is out of your reach for a long time. You have to use your charms on already existing objects."

"Sounds fascinating," Harry breathed into Tom's ear. The Slytherin shushed him with a glower but didn't push away. He figured so long as he didn't directly touch the older boy, it was all right. Riddle did seem to be awfully disgusted about touching, but many purebloods were. The suspicion that Tom could be a pureblood in disguise crept into his mind even further.

But why? Tom was likely a descendant of a Dark family-

Harry's eyes widened.

Judging by his power, by his intelligence, his handsome looks which promised to grow into magnificence with age, his _aura_... Tom Riddle could be a bastard grandson of Gellert Grindlewald! This revelation stumped him so much that it almost drowned out Professor Flitwick's further words. He didn't even notice that his head loomed an inch away from Tom, shoulder sharing in body heat, and Tom was too baffled to move away.

"Such projects encourage further study of theory and of spells. At first they will be really simple, but after your OWLs you'll have an opportunity to compete in national and world-wide competitions, and even with Unspeakables. Sometimes you will be allowed to publish articles on your work in the _Charms for Charmers_ and _Spells for Sorcerers_ Magazines. The projects are not obligatory, of course, but you'll receive extra credit." The tiny professor swept the room with his gaze and chuckled. "Any more questions?"

"Are we going to be ranked?" Blaise asked loudly.

Harry barely suppressed a scoff. Of course. Blaise Zabini always strove to be the first. He snapped his head around to look at the boy, who sent him a smirk, and responded with a glare.

Blaise knew things about him, though, that prevented Harry from responding in a more physical way.

Professor Flitwick shook his head. "No. At first we used to create charts but it turned out to discourage those who couldn't keep up. Eventually we abolished the system."

"That's too bad, I suppose," Blaise muttered. Harry felt a surge of vindictive pleasure.

"Now, I think it's best we start!" Professor exclaimed cheerfully. At the command of his wand a little over a dozen boxes emerged from a cabinet. Some of them were well-crafted boxes with locks, while others were of carved wood and closed with the drop of the lid. A box of each kind dropped on every table. Harry immediately examined the simpler one, while Tom stared suspiciously at the other, more expensive-lloking, before carefully raising it with two fingers to squint at it.

"I don't think this is the biting sort of a box," Harry said helpfully, still tinkering with his own object. So far it looked ordinary, not even close to the Soul-Sucking Casket Rudolphus favoured, nor to the Chest of Miracles he glimpsed once in Zabini's home.

"Why would anyone need a box that bites them?" Tom asked. He still hesitated to open it, despite correctly suspecting that it would be empty and magic-less.

"Who said they wanted it to bite _them_?"

Tom's eyes flickered to him. "Oh. A nice present for someone you don't really favour." They shared a sharp-edged smile.

"Today, we're practising locking charms," Professor Flitwick began. His squeaky voice switched into a stern teaching mode. "Unfortunately, the Ministry pays more attention to the unlocking _Alohamora_ more than anything else, but badmouthing the government is somewhat illegal, so let's get down to the core. There exist three main locking charms that a witch or a wizard would use."

He raised one of the crafted metallic boxes for the whole gathering to see.

"Next week we're learning the simplest one, _Sermet_. It works on anything that has an actual lock on it, from doors to chests. Magic creates a key of sorts that just locks the door as any ordinary key would, before disappearing. Doesn't work if there is a key in the lock already."

He flicked his wand twice and ended the incantation with a jab at the box, as if he were stabbing a particularly nasty gentleman with an umbrella to his stomach. Harry heard the sound of a turning key.

"See?" He tried raising the lid but it didn't give. _Awesome_ , someone breathed. Probably a muggleborn. "You don't have to practise it for now. The next one is ' _Sermet Intactilis_ '. It's basically the same thing as Sermet, but functions a bit differently: simply pushes the mechanisms inside the lock as a key would have done, but works when a key is stuck inside, too. Two flicks, a swish, and a jab. Write this down, please!"

Harry grabbed a quill and quickly scribbled the words. Tom had been writing since the very beginning of the lecture. Harry shook his head.

_Strange guy. Why spend time writing something on parchment when it's already written in a book?_

"Now, the last one for today. _Suoseris_. It's used to lock things that have no lock. Mostly used on card boxes or boxes in general, or on secret doors. The magic basically glues the lid to the rest of the box or the wall and it can be unglued with an _Alohamora Fortis_ –an enhanced Alohamora that we'll be going through during our club meetings. Sometimes it's used to glue a pricey object or a painting so it can't be stolen. Three flicks and two jabs."

Harry's mind returned to the painting of Walburga in the Black town house. The snarky woman harped at Uncle Sirius every time the man dared show his face there, and very often his godfather tried to unstick it, but every attempt failed. Regulus protected the things dear to him well.

"Now, choose the spell and the box, and during the next lesson you'll try the other one." Professor Flitwick clapped his tiny wrinkley hands with a smile. "Go on!"

Harry and Tom looked at each other, each hugging the boxes they chose.

"Pretty obvious which ones we'll try, huh?" Harry asked with a grin. Tom's lips twitched and he shrugged, looking away and concentrating on his item.

"Don't you dare bother me begging to explain how the spell works for you," the Slytherin said. He raised his wand with a flourish and Harry reluctantly admired the elegance in the flow of his movements, so unlike his own twitchy gestures. The sort of grace Regulus despaired to instill in him.

Harry huffed and gave his wand the necessary three flicks and two jabs, carefully pronouncing the incantation. The tiny crack between the lid and the main body shone with faint blue light for a second, but Harry opened the box with no resistance. Failure.

Well, at least Tom didn't succeed either.

"Hey," he began. When Tom ignored him in favour of repeating the attempt, Harry jabbed his elbow painfully into the other's side. This time the Slytherin paid attention, even if it consisted of an angry hiss which baffled Harry at how strange it sounded, so unlike a real hiss. "Who completes the task first, wins."

Tom abandoned his wand for a second, intrigue gleaming in his eyes even as he rubbed his side. "Wins what?"

Harry paused. He twirled his wooden box in his fingers absently.

"Does it matter?"

A smile bloomed on Tom's pale lips. "Of course not."

Just as Harry flicked his wand, exhilarated for a challenge, a heavy boot squished his toes. The green-eyed boy yelped. "What the hell was that for, wanker?"

His poor toes stung even though the dragon hide protected them a little.

"For jabbing me. Have you not noticed that since yesterday you are particularly keen on hurting me?" Tom had the gall to sound indignant himself, as if _Harry_ was at fault here. "You broke half my bones yesterday and now you are furthering the damage. Keep it up, Harry, and I'll start to think you _like_ causing people pain."

The Slytherin's motions never wavered once during his speech. His spoke very softly, too, his voice so low that not even Professor Flitwick who supervised the Patil twins behind them caught a single snippet of a phrase.

"Yesterday was an accident!" Harry defended himself. Of course, he utterly ignored that after the fall he hadn't held out a hand to help Tom get up or anything and had generally been happy with the idea of sleeping on the other boy for the whole night.

Well, he never claimed to be a saint. Only his father did that.

"Keep telling yourself that."

He grinned through his indignation.

Not even Ron or Neville bantered with him like that.

* * *

Harry happily munched on a sugar quill (the professor had given all of them one at the end of the lesson for their hard work, even though some didn't finish on time) as he followed the bunch of excited students out of the classroom. Through all the chatter of the corridor Tom sulked by his side.

"Hey, it's not like a draw is that bad of an outcome!" Harry told him cheerfully.

It had been a close call, Tom almost winning this spur-of-the-moment game, but Harry had enlisted Blaise's help - a subtle glance behind, a nod at a focused Tom, and Blaise understood everything with a smirk. The boy wouldn't pass upon a chance to make the Slytherin mudblood look bad.

Harry felt a wee bit guilty, but not guilty enough to regret his actions. After years of Regulus's teachings this tiny scheme paled in comparison to his mentor's grandiose plans.

"My winning would have been a better one," Tom replied, his chin raised high. Harry wondered why his neck didn't snap yet.

"It's not like this is the last Charms Club meeting. Every Sunday at nine, remember?" Harry grinned and jabbed the Slytherin in the side, on purpose choosing the same spot as previously, and enjoyed the wince and the glower. "So many opportunities for me to beat you!"

Tom's eyes narrowed at the further challenge and his entire body tensed. Nope, the bloke certainly didn't appreciate the draw.

"It will be the opposite, I assure you," he promised darkly. Harry would shiver if he hadn't met the Lestranges. _That_ was a bunch of mindscrews if he ever knew one.

"What are you gossiping about, standing so apart from everyone else?" Blaise butted in suddenly, cutting off Harry's reply. He wedged himself between Harry and Tom with all the grace of a troll chasing butterflies. Harry clenched his jaw. He'd known Zabini would be annoying anyway. Familial traits ran deep in the family.

He also realised now that while the main crowd advanced forward quite a bit, Tom and he lagged behind, too caught up in their chat, even though neither of the boys fully stopped.

"Not any of your business, Zabini!" Tom snapped through clenched teeth.

This didn't surprise Harry. He knew that Slytherins only bothered to charm members of other Houses, preferably not purebloods - and Harry didn't doubt that Tom acted friendly for the most part because he found him useful, not out of a sudden surge of kinship, even if Harry himself would find the second option preferable - and power-played each other in the meanwhile. The power plays didn't limit themselves to subtle manipulations. Slytherin wasn't a stranger to rough-housing or a good old fist smack into a face, just take a look at their Quidditch team.

"If I addressed _you_ , Riddle, I would have said so," Blaise replied coolly. His dark-skinned arm wrapped around Harry's bony shoulders. "I'm talking to my best mate Harry here."

"Since when are we anything remotely close to best mates?" Harry replied with eyebrows soaring high into his hairline. He struggled to untangle himself from Blaise. He didn't mind bantering with him, even though he appreciated Tom better, but Blaise acted way too tactile around everyone for his liking. "The last time I met you before Hogwarts I thought you were an obnoxious little git who deserved to be splinched in a Disapparition. My opinion of you changed when- Oh wait. It never changed!"

"Guys!" Lillian Moon called out to them, stopping and turning around. Her pixie haircut and a mischievous grin made her look like a Cornish Pixie a bit. Didn't help that her hair was died dark blue with charmed glitter. "We're celebrating Michael's birthday by the Black Lake. There will be lemon pies involved. Will you join us?"

Blaise untangled himself from Harry, who breathed in relief. He didn't miss the wary way in which Tom's eyes followed Blaise's figure.

"Michael? Who the hell is this?"

Harry shook his head in aggravation. He knew the trope. Stupid desire to put others down and make themselves look better.

"Ugh... it's me!" his fellow Ravenclaw said. Clad all in black from head to toe and with a voluminous mane of black hair that hid most of his face, he stuck out like a gloomy mushroom near the brightly dressed Susan, Stephen Cornfoot, and Lillian. Harry didn't mind the boy, but sometimes he honestly suspected that Corner was Snape's lovechild with a mysterious miasma.

"What's your surname?" Tracey asked, leaning forward to inspect him. As Harry knew, she wouldn't recognise him. She knew it as well, but kept talking. "I don't believe I've ever seen you attend a single party - and I attend them all, mind!"

Harry could testify for the veracity of that claim. Indeed, every time Regulus dragged him out of his nest of blankets to an extravagant, cold, superfluous gathering, Tracey Davis always greeted him with her twirling form across the ballroom.

"Ur... It's Corner." He flushed. "Michael Corner. And I've never been at a pureblood party - my dad is a muggleborn and my mother is a McDonald. Mary McDonald. She's a halfblood."

Harry had eavesdropped on Michael telling Anthony that both his parents worked as shop-assistants, his mother employed at Zonko's while his father worked away his hours at Flourish and Blotts. Certainly not the sort for the social season.

A faint grimace touched Tracey's plump lips, and Michael lowered his head. He didn't miss the derision in the faces of Macmillan and Blaise as well.

Harry jerked when Blaise grabbed his arm and whispered into his ear, rather conspicuously, "The lower stock."

No way Michael missed it. His aura of magic flared a little in rage before fury subdued into resignation. Harry refused to put up with gits. He had begged the Hat to not put him in Slytherin exactly to avoid constantly negotiating a neutral position between sympathising with muggleborns and picking on them.

Of course, his position as Regulus's protege prevented him from entering into a confrontation with the son of the man's major political ally.

_Diplomacy_ , Harry repeated like a mantra in his head.

Did his wishes matter?

"Tom and I will go to the Black Lake with you, Michael." He grinned charmingly and marched forward to take the Ravenclaw's hand in his. It felt warm, unlike slimey and super-cold like his mind had imagined. Harry utterly ignored Tom's indignant sputter behind him. "Tom loves birthday parties, he told me so just a minute ago, and right now he wants to join you, too, he just can't muster up courage to ask." Harry exhaled loudly and leaned to mock-whisper into Michael's ear, "Don't be afraid of those glaring eyes, my Tom is a timid chap. So full of complexes he's afraid of pretty much everything, poor thing."

If eyes could drill for real, a hole would split Harry in two.

Michael forgot about purebloods and their petty scorn.

"Oh! It- It's great!" He flushed again, now looking like a _cooked_ mushroom. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Tom, but you're just so talented in just about everything! It'd be cool if you gave us some tips!"

The other Ravenclaws' eyes lit up at the word 'tips', especially since only half of them had managed the feat of locking their boxes successfully. Harry stifled a laugh. Everything went exactly according to the plan. Tom, with his 'charming' act going on, couldn't refuse.

He looked at the Slytherin slyly out of the corner of his eye.

That dark gaze promised retribution.

Harry, to his surprise, found himself looking forward to it. He had promised Tom to beat him, after all.

* * *

This is a light, transition chapter, so not too much action here. Here are some answers to your questions:

\- No, Harry's not really more powerful than Tom. In terms of pure power, Tom totally trumps him in this regard. On the other hand, Harry has the power of knowledge and connections as well as understanding of the culture they live in. This is also the reason why I prefer Tom's POV for the first part of the story (which is 1-3 years): in this AU it's very hard to write from Harry's point because he knows lots of people you as readers have no idea about, as well as many quirks of the wizarding traditions that you'll have to discover through Tom's eyes. Harry's magic-seeing ability isn't as useless and simple as it might seem either.

\- Tom is pulled to Harry by something at first, yes, so their instant connection isn't entirely natural. Still, this doesn't mean that this thing influences all their interactions; for now, let's just say that it forces them to spend time together, but from then on it's their personalities which play the decisive role in their relationship (whatever it is).


	7. Good Manners with Bad Morals

_**Chapter 6. Good Manners with Bad Morals** _

* * *

Potter was dead.

Tom's fingers itched to fling a spell at the annoying boy who daintily nibbled his portion of the lemon pie without a care in the world. He _would_ surf the library for a spell that made glowers _literally_ impale the addressees. To turn his thoughts away from the infuriating guy, he looked over the others.

Their group of seven chose a quiet place not far from the Gamekeeper's hut, just between two red oaks with branches so intertwined they merged into a single entity. Tom kept his back straight and didn't lean into the tree behind him, disgusted by the dirty bark and the insects crawling all over it, and he faced the gloomy Forbidden Forest with caution not shared by the rest of the company – they all chattered brightly between themselves, occasionally snatching a fruit from a plastic container (courtesy of muggleborn Stephen Cornfoot) or a piece of the lemon pie from a round porcelain serving dish.

The treat melted in Tom's mouth, but as he stretched his hand to grab another one, Harry's fingers bumped into his. Both boys glared at each other and a short struggle ensued. Tom smirked victoriously when he won a piece with more lemon jelly on it. Harry snorted. Green eyes flashed, and Tom dodged an elbow into his rib just in time.

"Why did you join the Charms Club, Harry?" Michael Corner asked. A few crumbs fell from his mouth when he spoke, and Tom thanked himself that he sat next to Potter and Anthony Goldstein instead of... that. Especially since Goldstein lost himself in random thoughts and had the decency to never engage others in a talk. "I really liked the idea to get acquainted with someone from the other Houses... and it didn't turn out that well," he mumbled the last part dispiritedly.

Harry leaned forward and laid his hand on Corner's sympathetically.

Why did Tom get hard prods while others received gentle touches?

"Don't mind Zabini and Davis, Michael. Many purebloods are like that. If you're born a jerk, there's nothing you can do to change that - just take a look at our Riddle here." Harry motioned to Tom with his head, his eyes laughing.

Tom fisted the blanket beneath his fingers. The idiot undermined all the hard work he was doing to charm the witless Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs!

Lillian Moon and Su Li giggled. The blue-haired girl, stifling her laughter in her hand, said, "Oh, please, Tom is such a wonderfully helpful and nice guy!" She turned to him. "Thanks for the clarifications regarding the locking charms. Professor Flitwick didn't really explain why this or that wand movement is necessary."

Tom covertly threw a smug look at Harry. The other flicked his tongue for a second before joining the conversation.

"It's actually in the parchment with tips he gave us," Harry said. He dived into his bag that lay beneath his elbow, and read from the aforementioned item, "Flicks are very common in all the spells connected with seals, especially the spells that belong to the group of locking and unlocking charms."

"But reading on parchment is so tough!" Stephen Cornfoot complained, the only one to eat an apple instead of the pie. The boy, along with Su himself, wore muggle clothes, unlike the rest. Tom thinned his lips at that; both should have asked at Malkin's about the existence of casual clothes for wizards. "I'm always having trouble trying to read Professor Flitwick's loopy handwriting."

"You're not the only one," Li agreed with a nod. Her appearance was tidy; two neat black braids fell on her olive dress and she carried her things in a small white leather purse more suited for an adult than for such a young girl. "Writing is much harder, though. I miss my Parker, and I always leave ink droplets on my homework. Professor Snape warned me that he would take points off Ravenclaw for that. Well, actually, he _did_ take five points for that."

Tom resisted an urge to scoff. Obviously, the dolts just didn't write well. He himself never had any trouble with reading _or_ writing the wizarding way.

"Wait, you write with _plain_ quills?" Harry and Moon exclaimed simultaneously before exchanging incredulous glances.

"I didn't think anyone did that since the times of Ravenclaw," Anthony Goldstein noticed melancholically. He spoke so softly and rarely that Tom forgot he was there.

Right now, though, Tom didn't care about it in the light of an epiphany.

"You mean, you don't?" Cornfoot asked, his blue eyes wide as saucers. "Of course, I've read about peacock or hippogriff quills, but-"

"Well, the quill I'm using now is a condor's feather – Uncle Regulus's present – but my mother charmed it to write smoothly, without dripping ink," Harry explained. He leaned in and looked at Cornfoot and Li as he spoke, not even glancing at Tom, as if expecting Tom to know this already. "Another charm prevents me from smudging lines with a sleeve once the words are down on the parchment, and yet another doesn't allow me to pierce through with the sharp tip. They're very quick and easy, and I'm actually surprised we don't learn them at Professor Flitwick's lessons-"

"Don't forget the Auto-Quills!" Moon interrupted him with a clap. "Those jot down whatever the people around you say and you don't even have to lift a finger!"

"Yeah, these are great," Harry picked up. "I always use one on Binns' lectures, but unless you dish out lots of money on a voice-attuned long-distance quill, they can be inconvenient in some settings."

"Voice-attuned? What do you mean?" Tom asked, hungry for a bit of knowledge he had missed. His head tilted.

Harry blinked at him, as if hearing such a question from Tom surprised him. "Don't you know already?" Something entered his gaze and he shook his head, messing up his hair into a complete bird's nest. "It's simple – you give the quill a command, sometimes mental, and it only writes after one person of your choosing. The price depends on the range in which it can 'hear' a person – pretty much from half a foot to twenty. I've got a neat lark quill that 'hears' within three feet and, believe me, most lectures are a _breeze_ with this."

"It's unfair that purebloods know this and muggleborns don't," Cornfoot mumbled into a piece of pineapple he stuck into his mouth to relieve stress. "We should be learning _this_ instead of turning matches into needles and back again!"

Harry shrugged. His forehead crinkled in obvious disagreement to Cornfoot's words.

"Mum says it's because everything is geared towards purebloods, and this is a subtle way to snub muggleborns and halfbloods raised in the muggle world, but I think it's mostly because we simply _forget_ about such small things." Harry moved closer to Tom and backed against the oak, much to the latter's dismay. Obviously, Potter didn't care much for insects or dirt. "Making you guys write with plain quills on purpose is pointless, but it's such an _ordinary_ part of our life that no one ever talks about that."

"No wonder the _Welcome to Wizards_ book didn't mention that." Tom frowned. He wondered what else revealed the heritage he struggled to conceal; what else no book could give.

"We need better books, then," Li said. Her pale fingers held tightly onto her purse and her eyes shone with determination. "I've always wanted to go for journalism to inform people about other ways of life and events, but being a writer seems just as fine."

Harry laughed. The sound lingered in Tom's ear. "You're still going to miss something, even if you do write a textbook on our culture. Or read one. Don't worry, though, it's unimportant – even when a pureblood tells you you're not worth the Hogwarts education because of your upbringing, don't feel down and believe me that you won't remain uninformed for long. Mistakes are nothing to be afraid of when you have over a century to make things right. In time you'll realise just how much you can do with magic and that eventually you can soar high and leave all your rivals behind on the ground."

Tom's breath stopped for a second. He stared at Harry's shining eyes and confident smile, and heard the truth in his every sentence. Words that inspired him; words that pointed out a hidden concern in Tom's mind.

"Thank you." Li sent the Ravenclaw a close-mouthed grin. Her hands twisted over the cotton of her dress. "The year has just begun and I seem to keep up, but sometimes I hear someone hiss… 'mudblood' in the hallway and it demoralises me. It's nice to hear something encouraging from a pureblood; gives me hope that not all of you are like that."

Tom hated the look that Harry and Li shared. He hated that Potter addressed something of such value not to him but to a stranger, and he disregarded the small fact that he was nothing but a stranger to Potter, too.

It didn't spread to Potter alone. Tom loathed the times when a teacher complimented someone else instead of lavishing him with even _more_ praise, and he abhorred the moments when people listened to another's words over his. He hoarded attention like a dragon would his treasures, even when he _didn't_ need it. For some inexplicable reason, he demanded even more of it from Harry.

His fingers tugged on his sleeve. Along with the slight stiffening of his back, this alone showed his displeasure.

"Speaking about the things you can do with magic," Tom butted in. Although he spoke to Moon, he spoke loud enough for everyone else to hear him. Loud enough to interrupt whatever Harry had been about to say. "Did you dye your hair with a charm?"

Despite never caring about a person's appearance too much, Tom found the idea of a disguise fascinating. In the orphanage children always watched those spy films on the telly, especially favouring everything James Bond, and while Tom scorned the idea of using wigs, glasses, make up, and lenses as pretty much the only tools (too theatrical for his tastes), the whole _concept_ of changing looks and personas enticed him. Moulding a face out of an old one. Creating many people out of one – all without someone else knowing.

Magical tools offered an even greater range to play in. _Welcome to Wizards_ told about dying hair and changing eye-colour, yes, which gave the same result as the muggle means. Yet it also ensnared Tom with mentions of charms that changed skin colour and nose-shape, eye-shape and body length or width, the size of feet or hands. Some potions left permanent changes. Outlawed glamours provided a total appearance modification for a short time, but they also allowed to alter a person's race – you could acquire a vampire's or goblin's face in just a flick of a wand (or a short ritual – for those not blessed with powerful magic).

Tom didn't have a goal for this knowledge in mind. Not now, at least. Just like he hoarded the attention he didn't need, he hoarded bits of information he couldn't immediately use.

And he trusted himself to never have a totally useless fascination, be it an item or a person.

Moon blushed and said in a gushing voice, "Miss Tonks charmed it for me. I adore her, and I told her so when I visited the Auror Academy with my dad. And, well, she's got this really weird habit of using glamour charms to change her looks, and she dyes her hair frequently, and charms her eyes and skin different colours, so I asked her to make me brighter. More… memorable. Self-assured. Admittedly, I never expected a glittery blue pixie cut to give me confidence, but oh Merlin it does!"

Harry snickered, and his laughter intensified when Tom told her suavely, "It looks great on you. Makes me go weak at the knees."

He should brush up on his complimenting skills, he thought once the group erupted in laughter. To be fair, Tom hardly praised anyone in his lifetime.

"While Tom recovers from the sight of your wondrous beauty," Harry butted in, "Can I ask you a question? Why on earth does everyone want to be an Auror nowadays?"

Judging by the pink that coloured Corner's ears, he belonged to that 'everyone' category as well. Tom would wonder at that but glowering at Potter for the disruption kept him too busy. How hard would tearing the boy apart into a hundred little green-eyed morons would be?

… Scratch that, dealing with _one_ Potter exhausted him. A hundred would lead him into an early grave, always with those mischievous laughs and sparking eyes.

"Auror Potter, of course!" Moon exclaimed, and suddenly it put out half the fire in Harry's eyes. Tom observed the boy's reaction carefully. "Your dad's given this dream to so many of us, catching so many Dark wizards and creatures. He raised a generation of wanna-be heroes."

Tom decided it would be his cue to regain the control of the conversation. Harry abstained from responding quickly this time.

"So, you want to choose _the whole course of your life_ because of one person?" the Slytherin asked. His eyebrows hiked up. "Isn't it the same as _devoting_ your life to a stranger who doesn't even ask for it?"

Moon and Corner both blinked and traded glances. Harry's head snapped to his.

"I wouldn't say that," Corner said slowly. "I don't want to devote myself to Auror Potter, I'd like to _be_ him. For me, this is what inspiration is."

"Same here," Moon agreed. Tom didn't share their opinion. "I'd love to be as cool as Miss Tonks is."

"She's brilliant," Harry agreed with a nod. "I've never talked too much to her, but I saw her occasionally at the Auror Academy, and she's always so fun! Fred has a massive crush on her-"

"Really?" Moon exclaimed. Tom suddenly wanted to get out of there. "Tell me more about _that_!"

Harry laughed and eagerly shared a Weasley anecdote about the twin making a fool of himself numerous times with pickup lines, and Tom's wish to leave the company intensified.

And as they chatted, he realised how _different_ they were, how much of a fight it would be to burn his roots, and how easily purebloods deducted who belonged to their circle: Harry, Moon, Goldstein, and Corner threw around names and events and book-titles he didn't recognise, and Tom understood that he would never fit in. They talked about professions that sounded crazy or useless, and they complained about things Tom didn't have any idea existed. He had read the book, indeed. Yet it hadn't prepared him for this. And perhaps nothing could.

Except for…

Tom's mind halted before he kicked it into gear again. This time he stifled a victorious smirk.

What would be the best way to assimilate into the wizarding culture that rejected everything foreign?

_Soak it up by_ living _in that world._

A slow smile spread on Tom's lips, one he couldn't suppress, and when Li asked what happened, he didn't hide the happiness in his voice nor the gleam in his eyes.

"I have a great idea which will change everything."

He would talk to the Headmaster about remaining at Hogwarts for the summer.

* * *

Harry watched with fascination how Tom dominated their conversation, now about Potions. The Slytherin always listened attentively, often with a charming half-smile playing on his face, and never interrupted. On his turn to speak, he did it concisely, occasionally adding a joke but never derailing from the subject. He clarified things easily and never allowed impatience to drive him to a snappish attitude.

He was a natural at teaching, Harry realised that quickly.

At first, he was horrified that the boy was a golem designed to function a certain way – perfection ran _that_ deep – but then he checked the magic that a golem wouldn't have and discarded that option as ridiculous. Yet, the feeling stayed. It compelled him to seek imperfections and to see deeper than he desired.

He reasoned that no person would hide themselves so well.

He applied all of Regulus's teachings into observing Tom Riddle, and it paid off. When the Slytherin edged on the loss of control and about to bark an insult at Corner's idiocy, he clasped his sleeve tightly. When Harry's explanation of a potion's uses satisfied him, Tom nodded inconspicuously, as if marking Harry with an Acceptable in his mental classroom journal. When he munched on a biscuit – they were done with the lemon cakes now and everyone except for Cornfoot preferred sweets to healthy fruit – his back relaxed a bit, as if he lost himself in the taste to the point of forgetting his strict limitations to himself.

Of course, Harry's magic-reading helped just as well: everyone's auras placidly lay around their respective wizards, only occasionally flaring when an exciting topic or a piece of gossip everyone appreciated came up.

Very soon, his observation time reached an end when their stomachs ached for anything _not_ sweet and the children realised how late they were for supper.

"Do whatever you want, guys, but I _have_ to taste that farro soup with mushrooms a house elf promised we're going to have today," Su said with determination. She got up first and quickly gathered the quilt they had been sitting on into a plastic bag she produced out of her purse. The dish was left on the grass – the house elves would find it like they did all Hogwarts plates. "Thanks for inviting us, Michael!"

He smiled. "It's nothing. Thank _you_ for coming and for the presents."

Harry mentally congratulated himself for carrying around a set of fancy inkwells Regulus had given him. He just took one out and gifted it to Michael. The ever-lasting ink didn't dull with age and also changed colours at the owner's will, snapping from green into blue and black. Of course, he told his housemate it was a gift from Tom, too – he dragged the Slytherin into the whole birthday thing, so he wouldn't leave Tom in an awkward situation.

Remembering Tom's wide eyes and what-the-hell expression, Harry snickered.

That aside, he should probably put a few more expensive objects into his bag, just to be safe if someone invited them to their birthday, too. Even if it would turn his bag into an even bigger dump. Of course, he carried useful stuff such as his two favourite quills, the inkwells, a roll of parchment, and a small selection of blood-replenishing and pain-relieving solutions as well as his eye-sight correcting potion he drank every evening – the last ones courtesy of his mother. It also contained some crumpled chocolate frog cards, an ice mouse or two, an old photo of his family in Godric's Hollow with his grandparents in it, several coins without a pouch, a Rememberall Ron had gifted him…

Regulus reprimanded him for the disorder. Harry insisted the chaos comforted him and that his mentor should try it out someday. Such a pity his Uncle controlled every little thing existing in his life.

The others hurried off quickly. Lost in thought, Harry didn't notice it until Tom snapped at him to move.

He blinked at the other. "Why are you not running to the castle with them?"

"What does it look like? Waiting for you, Potter," Tom bit out. A smile bloomed on Harry's face. "Waiting to _tear_ your little self apart to _feed_ it to the foulest creature I can find in this damn forest-"

The grin wilted just as quickly. Harry backed away a step.

"Hey, Tom, aren't we such great chums and all-"

A sorrowful wail erupted from the bowels of the Forbidden Forest. Harry paled, his hands flying to his mouth, and inched closer to Tom, whose head snapped to the source of the sound. The Slytherin raised his wand, even if neither of them knew any Defence spells yet, their lessons purely theoretical for now.

"You mean _this_ foulest creature?" Harry whispered, his voice strangled. The sun beamed down on them, but with no soul around it gave no comfort. A raven crowed from the oak they stood by.

The howl resounded again, this time cut short. Harry's heart thumped. The cry touched the strings of his heart he didn't know existed, beautiful and frightening and sad and so many other things. He wanted- He had to-

Harry stepped away from Tom and towards the forest.

Fragile weeping, now coming in another voice, encouraged him. Harry gave up cool reasoning – he wasn't Regulus. Whatever people said, he _wasn't_.

"Potter!" he heard the warning behind him. "Didn't your parents teach you that if you see a dark, dangerous forest where you could be killed, and suddenly there is a wail coming from it, it does _not_ mean 'Hey, let's investigate and see if they ever find what's left of our corpses after some creature from a horror film is done with us'?"

"It's exactly the thing my dad advised me to do," Harry responded automatically.

A lie, since James always took Harry's well-being seriously. It was _Harry_ who wanted to live up to the Marauders.

His steps never faltered. Courage flowed in his veins despite the blue and bronze colouring of his tie.

He counted onTom to follow him just like Sirius once followed James… but that never happened. Harry slowed down.

"Don't you want to investigate?" he asked in a hesitant voice. "The Forbidden Forest is one of the most mysterious places in the Wizarding World. Some people say there are whole communities of creatures hidden here, communities beyond the reach of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"Of course I do," Tom replied, as if insulted. "I just don't want to do it _now_ , when I know of no way to annihilate whatever is lurking there."

"Not annihilate," Harry corrected, mildly troubled. Honestly, why did Tom Riddle insist on talking murder all the time? "Just see whatever is there."

"And what if _it_ sees _us_? No. There are enough ghost stories in the school for us to become another one."

"Think positively. If you're a ghost, you'll have a deathday party each year and will get to call in ghost council meetings – Uncle Regulus says even those are more exciting than Wizengamot meetings."

"Thank you. I would prefer to see Wizengamot first, at least once in my life. Just to see if it's really so dreadfully boring as they say."

They stopped at the edge of the Forest. Neither heard the anguished cry anymore, but Harry recognised it and wouldn't stay away. Tom, though…

He snuck a look at the other boy, who refused to step nearer.

"I'd still like to see if I can help," Harry said quietly.

Tom's face contorted into a grimace for a second before the boy bit out, "Fine. Don't expect me to rescue you."

His dark green robes billowing behind him, Tom stormed off into the castle.

Lonely, Harry trudged into the forest. He convinced himself he didn't fear the old trees looming over him or the mocking crows of birds.

* * *

Worrying about Potter was stupid. Tom never worried about anyone, actually, and that anxious knot in his stomach didn't mean anything other than his overeating of sweet things for the day.

Coolly, Tom sauntered towards the castle and the warmth. Idiot, idiot Potter – to exchange Hogwarts for some mad dash through the forest. It wasn't raining, at least.

Of course, Tom didn't entertain ideas about telling someone Potter's whereabouts. Not because the idea of ratting out the boy's exploits conflicted with his moral boundaries, but simply because if the other vanished without trace – and Tom favoured films about serial killers and mysterious forest murders enough to imagine that clearly – he'd rather not be harassed with interrogations as the last person who had seen Harry Potter.

Wait.

Tom halted in his steps. His boots clicked together.

What if Potter vanished and then Corner, Moon, and the others would testify that they had left him with Potter? Frankly, Tom wanted no interaction with that bright-robed Headmaster who smiled way too much, even though he would probably be merely questioned and not punished for anything.

Call him paranoid, but-

Tom rushed back to the forest.

He didn't want to get a bad record for leaving behind a yearmate in his first month.

* * *

Nothing could describe Harry's surprise when he carefully raised a branch of low-hanging dogwood and it revealed a small white foal underneath. It raised its head, and Harry gasped despite his earlier suspicion.

A long silvery horn adorned the space between two ears while clever eyes scrutinised him with intensity that surpassed even that of Riddle's glares.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Harry muttered to the creature that reared away from his small hand. Mistrusting him. Didn't surprise Harry, considering what he had once done. Unicorns only allowed pure souls to touch them, after all.

The foal abruptly lunged forward to smell the palm of Harry's hand and only the boy's instincts saved him from being speared by the ominous horn.

"Hey! Take it easy, you can kill someone with this thing!" he snapped. His hand still hovered in the air for the creature that nuzzled into it. Harry stared. After a moment he patted the unicorn behind the horn. The animal closed his eyes in pleasure before Harry adjusted his grip and guided it out from under the dogwood and into the tiny clearing.

He noticed something.

The blood.

"Are- are you hurt anywhere?" Harry exclaimed, in panic since he had no idea how the hell to treat a unicorn.

His hysteria ceased once his fingers slid over the blood-tainted skin and found no wound. Obviously, someone else's. Harry soothed the creature with tender caresses on its side, his mind reeling.

Perhaps the wails had been another unicorn's? The blood, sparkling despite the shade of the trees, proved that fact. The mother's? Harry didn't know much about unicorns, but enough to dislike the idea of getting caught in the forest with whatever managed to kill one. Unicorns' skin was one of the thickest and most magic-proof, after all.

Just as he moved to turn away, something warm landed on his shoulder.

* * *

Harry shrieked and threw himself onto the unicorn, almost getting stabbed by the horn and stumbling to the ground. The creature snorted; particles of glowing pinkish dust streamed out of its nostrils. Laughter, like a dry and rusty sound of someone's deathbed coughing, sounded behind him. Harry pinched his lips as he recognised the owner.

"When I said your world is full of unicorns, you know I didn't mean it literally, right?" Riddle choked out behind him.

"You're welcome to stop laughing at my misfortune any minute," Harry barked. As he rose, he leaned onto the unicorn, almost falling once again because his fingers only smeared the blood on its side. The silvery substance now encrusted Harry's hand.

Once Tom neared it, the creature edged away from the Slytherin. Its nostrils flared.

"I told you we needn't have bothered to come here," Tom said. He stopped, not approaching further. Harry held his tongue, wanting dearly to snap that Tom had run with his tail between his legs just because they didn't know any battle spells. Which was _sound_ , but sometimes sound ideas weren't the _right_ ones. "This is just a blood-drenched horse with a horn."

Its head thrust forward and the spiral of the horn dug into Tom's shoulder. Harry winced when the other boy cried out and clutched the wounded area. He relaxed when no blood oozed out; the unicorn only meant to warn, not to hurt.

The animal backed away, towards the Ravenclaw who patted its ear absently.

"This one is offended you called him a horse," Harry deadpanned.

"Believe me, Potter, I _feel_ it," Riddle hissed through the pain. He speared the unicorn with a glower.

"I should have _known_ there is a reason for me to dislike you. Honestly, Potter, unicorns are about the most useless creatures there are. They, what, sparkle in the sun and bring beauty and joy? Idiotic. The only thing they are good at is being butchered for the sake of ingredients-" Tom's eyes acquired an unhealthy calculative gleam. "Wait. If we are selling its parts on a black market, I'm in. Sixty per cent of the profit is mine."

Harry ogled at him. "We're NOT selling its parts!" he yelped. The unicorn stood on its hind legs in protest as well. "I don't even know where a black market _is_! Unless I ask Uncle Rab- but _no_ , just no. We're not doing it! We're _rescuing_ it!"

"Could you be any more boring, Potter?"

"The word you were looking for is 'humane', Riddle," Harry deadpanned. He melted when he looked into the grateful deep eyes of the little creature that whimpered and leaned into his touch again, its short fur softer than a cat's. "Let's go. See the grey shiny slime on its side? It's unicorn blood and believe me when I say I don't _want_ to know what happened for it to get there. We're better off alerting someone."

Tom narrowed his eyes and curtly nodded in agreement. He clasped his wand tightly in his hand, glancing around – nothing but dogwood trees under great oaks, and tiny yellow flowers strewn across the carpet of the forest – while Harry led the unicorn away, rubbing it gently as the animal leant into him, careful of the appendage on its head.

They walked quietly, listening to the birds that chirped and feeling the sun beam down on them through the patches in the tight knit of tree branches above. An occasional owl barked and frightened Harry but the boy refused to show his dread in front of Tom. For some reason, he refused to let Tom think less of him for having a weakness. He felt a bit like in front of one of Regulus's fancy friends, and he loathed the feeling.

It was everything he wanted to escape by avoiding a fate as a Wizengamot member; a fate Regulus and his mother imposed on him.

"Where are we taking it?" Tom broke the silence. Harry almost jumped.

"To Hagrid," he replied.

A smile lit his face at the memory of the friendly giant his family used to visit occasionally. Everything he remembered of those sunny days in the hut when Fang licked his palm and Harry covertly disposed of the ancient muffins to not offend the man while Hagrid told him about the creatures he illegally bred.

"The Gamekeeper? Wouldn't the Care of Magical Creatures professor be a more sound choice? Not that I care if this nasty piece of horse dies, of course."

This time Harry pressed the unicorn closer, preventing him from attacking the other boy.

It would be easier if Riddle showed more politeness… but he supposed the Slytherin's charm only spread to the members of the other houses, certainly not to animals and, somehow, not to Harry himself. Tom could at least try to be friendly to Harry.

"Hagrid is a better option than anyone when a creature is concerned. I just hope that he's home – if he didn't hear that howl back then, he was probably having supper in the castle."

Tom hummed. They drew up to the end of the forest. "You owe me a lot now, Potter."

"What are you going to do about it?" Harry asked with a smirk.

"Learn some spells and teach you a lesson. All the good things one does at school."

"And if I win again?"

"When did the first time happen?" Tom smirked. Harry whirled around, fully intending to kindly remind how he had tricked Tom into going with Michael, Su, and the rest.

An arrow rushing past his ear stopped him.

* * *

AN: Thanks to everyone so much for your reviews! 3 I won't mind if you do it again ;)

Something to clarify: When Lillian talks about Tonks using glamours, she doesn't know that Tonks is actually a Metamorphmagus as it's something I don't think Tonks would spread around much, considering that she specialises in spying and pretending to be a Dark witch/wizard to get proof of their misdeeds.


	8. A Schoolful of Danger

_**Chapter 8. A Schoolful of Danger** _

* * *

Both boys (and a unicorn) held their breaths for a second. Nothing stirred, and not a fallen tree branch crunched. Still, Harry knew that arrows didn't strike greenery out of the blue by themselves, as a rule. A sense of presence lingered nearby.

Tom stiffened and clutched his wand tightly, his fingers pale around the handle. The mantle of magic around his shoulders flared and grew in agitation, like a cobra's hood. Instinctively, Harry grasped the boy's upper arm. Tom didn't seem to mind for once.

Remembering his ability, Harry attempted to extend the area his special eyesight could grasp, and there he found them: two auras standing side by side, in a spot he wouldn't notice with his normal sight. Two blurs of pure sunlight against the tree bark.

Harry frowned at the colours. In every wizard he perceived magic differently: sometimes a wizard sported an aura of pure velvet, or a mishmash of colours enveloped a witch, sometimes pure colours prevailed, while others were dulled, muted. It shifted when the person cast spells or their mood changed. It flowed endlessly, never stilling.

This time, the magic felt woven of starlight and greenery. One calm, its curious tendrils occasionally poking at the tree bark and plants, and petting small animals and birdfolk. The other darker, stormier, brooding inside the being in question.

Neither felt human.

Having a suspicion, Harry glanced at the arrow stuck in the tree trunk. "Looks a bit like those arrows made by centaurs," he quickly whispered to Tom, stepping closer. He winced when a fallen twig snapped.

"Are you sure?" the Slytherin asked sharply. For the first time Harry detected no confidence in Tom's voice.

"No… but I saw something like this in picture books."

"And if you bothered to read something _other_ than picture books as well, perhaps you'd have known what to _do_ about this-"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but suddenly the magic auras moved. He whipped his head towards the source, and waited with bated breath and sweaty palms as the creatures neared.

Although Harry's parents bore no prejudices towards non-humans, Regulus encouraged Harry not to think highly of anything with more than two legs, or excessive hairiness, or teeth of the wrong length. The boy liked to believe he could think for himself, but his mind was packed with memories of his Uncle's storytelling, the man spinning tales of creatures' cruelty and twisting their intentions with his words. Haunting imagery and a nine-year-old shivering in bed from nightmares.

Now, one of the auras in particular exuded an amiable vibe, but Harry reared back. Pure instinct, nothing more. Perhaps sometimes the body didn't follow reason at all.

Tom breathed in sharply. Harry realised that the other boy was seeing a centaur for the first time in his life, and felt a shred of pity. Soon, the Lumos charm illuminated two half-horse, half-human figures.

The first of them wore a gentle smile and a mane of white-blond hair lighter than Lucius Malfoy's. A cluster of moon-shaped and inscribed amulets hung from his neck on roughly woven strings. The other centaur, of fiery violet eyes and brooding spirit, carried a bow like Tom carried his wand: firmly in his hands and prepared to strike down the threat no matter how daunting. His long black hair was gathered in a ponytail and adorned by feathers.

The pair of humans and the pair of centaurs stilled and stared at each other.

"Trespassers," the intimidating centaur spat out. Tom's hackles rose at the disgust in his tone. "And murderers."

"I've never killed anyone in my life!" Harry cried out indignantly.

_Except for flies, insects, and doxies, but I doubt anyone cares about those._

"I know," the blue-eyed creature responded melodically. "We are not here to accuse you. Please, feel at ease. My name is Firenze."

"Yeah," Harry spoke up, eyeing the pair mistrustfully. He ignored Tom's tug on his sleeve and a barely audible 'what are you doing, imbecile'. "You are here to welcome us. With arrows. And 'murderers' is a nice synonym to 'hello'. _And_ we're in a dark, _Forbidden_ Forest alone with no adults around. Yep, I feel almost like home."

_More like the Lestrange's home._

The dark-haired creature looked ready to blow up, if not for a warning sound from his companion.

"I beg you to forgive us. Bane overreacted." For the first time Firenze's aura flared in displeasure. "Upon the stars I promise you no harm tonight. Enough blood has been shed."

For some reason, peering into the eyes of the lighter centaur, he felt fear abandon him. After the initial panic passed, logic kicked in, and Harry realised that, being on the school grounds, they were protected from the rage of the beings. They were not unicorns. Their lives actually mattered to the faculty enough for the centaurs to be afraid of the repercussions if they committed some sort of nefarious deed towards Harry and Tom.

Hesitantly, Harry smiled. The centaur who called himself Firenze responded with a dreamy quirk to his lips, laying a hand on Bane's bow and moving it away.

"They are nothing more than children," Firenze told his companion gently. "They do not know what ails this forest."

"Their appearance is a bad omen," Bane snarled in response. Despite the harsh tone, he lowered his weapon and looked almost sullen, as if he already knew that the battle was lost but his pride kept him rebelling. "You are capable of reading the skies better than anyone, Firenze, so I cannot imagine for what reason we should not discreetly dispose of both and be done with it. Our offspring will thank us later."

"You cannot continue coping with problems by destroying the source."

"So far it seems to be working well enough, thank you for your concern."

" _You_ are not the one I am concerned about."

Harry almost jumped when Tom jabbed a finger into his side. When he turned to glare at the boy and opened his mouth to tell the Slytherin off, a finger hushed him.

"If we go now, I doubt that either of them would notice," the older boy whispered.

Harry nodded, but as they both inched away, doing their best to avoid creaking twigs and dry leaves, the centaurs remembered they were not alone. Bane lazily shot another arrow to kindly remind them to stay put. His friend – their sort of friendship reminded Harry of his and Tom's a bit – shook his head.

"I repeat, it is not our aim to kill you," Firenze soothed them.

"I am terribly sorry," Tom began with a scowl, "but pointy objects flying in my face do _not_ give you much credibility."

Bane sneered. "Credibility, eh. In my father's days we used to string the likes of you up by the guts and use as target practice."

"Don't lie," Firenze corrected him, "we used the intestines for _divination_." He looked at Harry and Tom, smiling. "This has always been a valuable resource for future-reading – too valuable to waste by _shooting_ , Bane – but humans are very reluctant when it comes to sharing it."

"Well, I can sort of understand them. Thanks for the information, by the way. Always nice to know where my body parts might end up," Harry muttered, eyes wide and head brimming with – rather unnecessary – thoughts. Ugh, he really didn't need yet another nightmare.

The unicorn nudged the Ravenclaw with its horn to remind the boy of its presence. Harry gasped.

"I'm sorry, this is really fun and all, but I'd like to get him help as soon as possible," he said. His fingers petted the foal's soft mane, and the creature neighed.

"Heh, first you kill her mother, then you kidnap _her_!" Bane trotted forward. Harry would have stood his ground firmly but Tom grabbed the back of his robe and pulled him backwards, apparently having had enough of Harry's apparently Gryffindor-ish tendencies.

"Bane, we have already established they are not at fault," Firenze warned with exasperation. Harry was starting to think that this Bane horse-bloke didn't really care who was at fault as long as he got to have his way with them. They really should hurry and get out.

Meanwhile, Firenze looked at the boys and said, "This isn't the first time, unfortunately. It has not happened merely to unicorns either: thestrals, runespoors, acromantulas… Their bodies turn up occasionally before we can even draw up a list of suspects. Often there are wards set up around the scene that prevent any non-humans from entering and helping."

"Why would they do it?" Harry asked after a second of silence.

"Profit, of course," Tom replied instead of the centaurs. He observed the beings intensely and left Harry wonder what he saw. "All the creatures you have listed can be found in the catalogue of those whom it is forbidden to hunt for potions ingredients. They are extremely rare, highly dangerous, and can only be found in certain parts of Britain."

Harry blinked several times.

"Why would you ever read something like this?" he asked dumbfounded.

Tom shot him a disdainful look. "I am mu- not raised in a magical family," he gritted out. "Obviously, I wanted to see what menaces lurk around this place and how safe a magical school is." He covertly glanced at Bane's bow. "Not at all, it turns out. _Besides_ , I actually like Potions."

"I would like Potions, too, if Snape liked _me_ ," Harry muttered sullenly. He looked at Firenze. "Do you really think it's illegal ingredient-hunting?"

This might interest both Regulus and Rabastan. While Harry often skipped out on the dubious pleasure of spending time with Rabastan, he'd eavesdropped enough to glean that the man cut a prominent figure in the British underground. Regulus shielded Harry from the gruesome details, but the boy could visit the Lestrange Manor to enquire further. Someday. Let's hope not very soon.

"Humans hardly need a reason to butcher non-humans," Bane scoffed, his hands on his arms.

"You have no need for a reason to shoot humans either," Firenze reminded him mildly – making Bane scowl and clutch his bow which he still hadn't put away – before speaking to Harry, "We are attempting to divine the motive, but any drastic action will not be taken until we hear back from Headmaster Dumbledore. After all, it is his duties as the Headmaster to ensure the safety both of the visitors to the forest and its denizens."

"What happens if he has no solution?" Tom asked.

Bane smirked. "Then it's all in the hands of Magorian, our leader. Believe me, kiddies, you don't want it happening: he always acts in favour of the majority, and not all of us are weirdoes like Firenze. Especially after a dragon was killed-"

"Wait! Dragons? There are actually dragons here?!" Tom interrupted in a panicked voice. Harry thought there must be a limit to the traumatic stuff muggleborns could undergo in a single hour, and even Tom wasn't an exception.

"Only the smallest ones. Unfortunately, our forest is not big enough to contain the bigger species-"

"Which is the fault of humans!"

"-but at the very heart there are some nests and caves where dragons live." Firenze smiled. "Perhaps the stars will permit you entrance one day."

"Um… would be very nice of them. Thanks," Harry mumbled awkwardly. He felt like the conversation was drawing to a close and didn't really know whether Tom and he should just say bye and walk away, or keep chatting, or demand that they take care of the unicorn themselves. Uncle Reg had _sort_ of prepared him for a touch of hobnobbing in a parlour of an ancient pureblood home, but not for a chat in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, in the dusk, with a blood-soaked unicorn by his side, and shoes caked with mud.

"Now, shall I lead you out of the forest?" Firenze asked, making the decision for him.

Harry wondered if that was a veiled warning that the centaur didn't trust them to take a detour to his companions' lands again, but swept the thought away; so far Firenze was way too charming and nice for that. He grinned.

"No need. I think Tom and I can manage, thanks. We aren't that far from the edge of the forest yet, anyway."

Harry noticed relief glimmer in Tom's eyes.

Both of them spent the way to Hagrid's hut in wary silence, jumping at every shuffling sound, trying to remember every remotely useful spell they had glimpsed in their DADA and Charms textbooks, but their hands almost touched, their hearts drummed in their chests from the excitement and fear, and a new sort of connection forged between them.

* * *

"This is Hagrid!" Harry announced proudly to Tom. Tom rolled his eyes. The half-giant's figure loomed over the overgrown pumpkins, beetroots, and cabbages.

"I know. If it escaped you somehow, we arrived by the same train and he was the one to lead us to McGonagall." Tom paused. "Is he truly going to be the teacher of the Care for the Magical Creatures after the current one retires?"

"Yeah." Harry chuckled. "He's awesome. He honestly deserves this title, quite unlike the guy we've got now. I mean, he loves animals most of all in the world and though his tastes are a bit... err... different... he is a nice bloke and his ideas regarding their care are admirable."

"Hmm. He looks utterly incompetent to me," Tom spoke his verdict. Hagrid moved too sluggishly and awkwardly, his jacket was untidy - and was that a mouse hanging out from one of the pockets? - and when he saw them, he started wildly waving and barking overly loud greetings, without caring that the curfew was drawing near and both boys could be punished for loitering around the grounds so late.

"That's because you haven't been at one of his lessons," Harry told him. "You can't judge a person for something you haven't seen them doing."

"Neither have you," Tom shot back. "And most of the world population seem to be coping just fine."

"It's never fun arguing with you because you never let me win!" Harry complained.

Tom shot him an amused look.

"You are a Ravenclaw. Astound me with your arguments, and we shall see."

The budding argument was interrupted when Hagrid noticed the unicorn. There was a lot of fussing, and the Headmaster was summoned, and the boys were swiftly sent away to their dorms.

When their gazes met, both knew it was not the end of things. Tom wondered which section of the library would yield a better response on how to evade prefects and teachers, because he sure as hell wasn't going to spoil his budding good record by getting a detention for wandering a supposedly forbidden forest – only after finding out every possible danger and how to escape it, of course.

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry jotted down all the details about the mystery creature killings into the diary he kept for those purposes, warded with a set of runes by the goblins of Gringotts as per Regulus' orders. His uncle kept his secrets. 'Any person worth of note needs information not open to the public,' he often repeated. Considering that Uncle Reg only thought of politicians and businesspeople as worthy, it was reasonable. In any case, Harry didn't complain. He had his journal, and thus he wrote down every miniscule detail for later review. One day he would make sense of those happenings.

This journal was not simply a book to write secrets in, Harry knew. It was a subtle way for Uncle Reg to encourage Harry to uphold a duty his father eschewed: writing a grimoire.

In the magical world, a grimoire was a compilation of spells, a record of events, an inventory of artefacts, and even a personal diary. Old families hoarded them. The Unspeakables researched them. Every pureblood child started working on one when they started their schooling – except, apparently, for James Potter and Sirius Black, who never registered the numerous trinkets, spells, and potions they invented.

It drove Uncle Reg mad. Such a waste. So, he made sure to trick Harry into creating one by giving the boy a task to store information on his classmates 'for future blackmail', but the man obviously couldn't really believe that schoolchildren committed something _that_ compromising.

Harry didn't mind. His calligraphy improved, and writing marshalled his thoughts. There was something mesmerising in his ideas, opinions, wishes, and speculations transformed into ink on paper.

But soon, Harry didn't have the time to think about forests and unicorns, when school life fully absorbed him.

* * *

Just as Harry entered the library to seek out his usual spot, he spotted a vaguely familiar head of bushy hair, and remembered that he had wanted to invite Hermione Granger to the Charms Club, something that Parvati and Padma had failed to do.

As he neared her, he fidgeted, nervous and even intimidated. Hogwarts already abounded in stories regarding this particular muggleborn, and none of them had anything good to tell. People described her as bossy and fear-inspiring, telling that she had hit Seamus when he failed a charm and blew up the classroom. She also disgusted most Slytherins because not only was she of dirty blood, she dared to shine in the classroom as well, and as if that wasn't enough, she had enough confidence to not look afraid of it.

Su once confessed that she wished she had Hermione's total disregard for the glowers and harsh whispers thrown her way.

Harry had to admire the girl for that.

"Hello!" he called in a soft voice, careful not to alert Ms Pince who was ever vigilant over a pile of her tresured books.

Hermione hesitated before finishing a sentence with a flourish and raising her head. There were a few ink smudges on her cheeks and her eyes were a bit bloodshot, but she also seemed rather happy, as if invisible inner energy was feeding her. Perhaps, like a plant in the sun, she fed on the energy from the books, Harry supposed with amusement.

"Hello to you as well, I suppose," she greeted. Her hand still held the quill and she watched him with wariness. "Just so you know, I am not going to do anyone's homework for them."

Harry smiled. "No worries here! I've got my homework done already."

Not true, but Uncle Reg always said that the things that weren't true were the most pleasant to hear. Harry had come to make friends, not enemies, and he got the feeling that if he confessed to not having done his Potions essay - what's the point? Snape hated him anyway - she would chew him out and they certainly wouldn't have a peaceful conversation.

"Oh." She blinked several times.

"Can I sit here?" Harry gestured at the only free seat by the round mahogany table. Piles of books and scrolls dwelt on the rest, and he dared not invade their home.

"S-sure. I don't mind."

"You seem very clever."

Hermione sniffed. "I know. If this is a prelude to an insult, I have to warn you that I've read all the first-year books available on DADA."

"I'm not here to pick a fight." Harry threw his hands up. "I just wondered if you're interested in Charms as well as other subjects."

"Oh, Charms!" Hermione exclaimed. When Pince threw her a nasty glare, she oh-ed and clasped her hands over her mouth before tossing Harry a tiny endearing grin. It transformed the girls's face. He couldn't hold back a smile in response. "Sorry. It's my favourite subject, actually. I mean, you get to learn so many spells that make your life so much easier! Just yesterday I discovered this cleaning spell and it worked perfectly when I started using it, and, you know, it's got so much easier to be an organised person."

"Does it really work? This cleaning charm?"

She looked at him strangely. "Obviously. It cleans things of dust and dirt. So much better than doing it myself." She scrunched her face. "I know, I know, not a particularly feminine trait, but I've always _abhorred_ housework."

She shuddered.

"I don't know whether I hate it or not," Harry admitted in turn, shrugging. "Most of it is done by the house elves. Well, mum also usually tells me to clean my room myself, but the elves are dears and love tidying up stuff anyway, so it's not really that bad that I use their help from time to time. Or all the time."

Just when he saw Hermione open her mouth, that unhealthy gleam he recognised from when his mum encountered a particularly fascinating potion she could reproduce, Harry rushed to interrupt, "Anyway. I came here on business. There's a Charms Club and you should totally join. Professor Flitwick's gonna burst from happiness if you do, too."

"I've heard about the Charms Club from Parvati this morning, but thank you." Hermione smiled. "I didn't truly think that someone would think it necessary to invite me."

"She told you?"

Harry used to be close with Padma several years ago. During the picnics that purebloods often threw to build a rapport between their children, she, Harry and Blaise would sometimes find a quiet spot where they sat unbothered by the wind, read aloud books about the adventures of muggles in the magical world – with Harry relaying his mother's comments – and play Wizengamot members or Potioneers or even wand-makers.

With Parvati, on the other hand, Harry had never traded more than a few sentences at a time. He discarded her as an idiot and airhead, only interested in fashion and refusing to talk about politics or actually serious matters that the children of politicians couldn't truly understand but liked to pretend they did. He likened her to Pansy, believing she wasn't the sort to admit a mistake.

Now, his cheeks burned because he realised what a hypocrite he was, telling off Tom for judging but doing the same.

"Yes," Hermione responded, "and I'm fully planning on going. I've already browsed some of the log from the meetings of the previous years and research the projects done by the other students-"

"Hold on, hold on! You haven't even attended a single lesson-"

"I'm sure you understand that a project requires very thorough preparation," Hermione began. Harry gaped when he recognised her expression as one Tom sometimes adopted. "We already have the full list of spells we're going to learn during the meetings this year, as well as the book where the wand movements are explained, so I'd like to prepare in advance."

"Not even Tom is that thorough," Harry muttered.

"Tom?" Vague dislike appeared on Hermione's face. "Tom Riddle?"

"Yeah. He goes to the Charms Club, too. He can be a bit scowley at times, but he's a nice guy deep down."

_Very, very deep down._

To be honest, Harry had come to the conclusion that Tom wasn't as evil as he wanted to convince him. True, the Slytherin had no trouble manipulating people, but when Harry saw him with other students, he also noticed that Tom enjoyed the conversations sometimes. He wasn't fond of vague chatter without any purpose, but when it came to conversations Tom anticipated, his eye lit up and he monologued until he exhausted all the facts he knew.

"I'd like to know his secret," Hermione muttered before throwing a sharp glance at Harry. "This is so unfair that purebloods get an upper hand when it comes to classes. They all know the material beforehand, and at times even know the professors, not to mention that some, like Malfoy, have read all the theory books long before coming to Hogwarts!"

"That's true that anyone growing up in the Wizarding World already learns some magic even before coming here, not to mention that pretty much everyone picks up a trick or two from our parents," Harry conceded, "but though we have a chance to read the entire curriculum before we turn eleven, not many people use it. Magic is just too normal for us to treat it as if it were something outstanding, so there are people who don't even bother opening the books in their parents' libraries." He shook his head. "Oh, and Tom's not a pureblood. He's a muggleborn like you."

Hermione's quill clattered to the stone floor.

"Tom Riddle is a muggleborn?"

"Yeah. The Slytherins are so not chuffed about it I'm surprised you haven't noticed.."

"I haven't paid much attention to their table," Hermione told him. "Breakfast is the ideal time for some last-minute preparation, and while of course I'm certain that I've read up on everything before the class is due, I still can't help but feel that it's not enough."

"I've never before been thankful that I'm not a perfectionist," was all Harry could say.

Hermione elbowed him lightly. Harry yelped. They both looked at each other for a second before grinning.

"How does he manage to succeed in everything so well, anyway? I'm filling up all my free time but-"

"No idea. It's not like we've had a lot of time to get to know each other that close yet." Harry sighed mournfully. "One day, I'm gonna find out, sell the info, and get rich."

Hermione giggled lightly. "You aren't doing too bad in classes yourself, you know?"

"Thanks. And, yeah, I'm trying to keep up. House honour, and all that."

The suckiest part of being a Ravenclaw, as Harry noticed, was that people expected too much things too eagerly when it came to academics, the expectations too hard to fulfil for some students of his house.

"You must have already compiled the schedules for study groups, right?" Hermione asked with envy in every syllable.

Harry choked.

"Uh, no. It's rather early still. Really early-" And idea hit him. "But if you'd like, I can organise the first meeting? We could gather a certain amount of people interested in a particular subject-"

"DADA!" Hermione exclaimed. "This is so important, but, unfortunately, Professor Quirrell isn't exactly... the best when it comes to teaching. He seems to be lacking real-life practical experience."

Harry hid a secretive smile. He agreed that the man had absolutely no talent in teaching, but when it came to experience, he seemed to be on to something.

"Yeah, DADA seems like a good topic for the first time. I hear that Anthony hates the lesson already, and Tom will surely join us. Su might, if she's not too busy, oh, and I can also call Terry, and Michael, and-"

"You can call the people," Hermione cut in, nodding, "and I can organise the main points we're going to discuss at the meeting. This is a fabulous idea." She fidgeted before smiling. "Thank you."

Harry didn't ask for what she was thanking him, but inside he knew her reason. Inside, he thanked her as well.

* * *

"Harry!"

The shout broke Harry's concentration and he looked up just in time to see a bundle of levitated parchment and books lands in front of his face. His own reading material was conveniently buried.

"Is this what I think it is?" Tom, who sat by his side, muttered.

"If by 'this' you mean Hermione Granger, than yeah, looks like it!" Harry chirped. He raised his own wand to shift the papers to the right, where Tom sat. The Slytherin levitated them away onto Anthony Goldstein's lap. The boy only sighed.

"This is rude, both of you!" Hermione sat with a huff and looked at them in consternation. "You could have at least lasted a hello before insulting me. Especially from you, Harry, I expected better."

"Yes, Harry, I expect better from you, too," Tom mocked. His quill never once stopped moving and recording the main points of a treatise on scrubbing charms.

"It's nice to see you, Hermione," Su Li, who had been staring at the entire situation with wide eyes by Anthony Goldstein's side, cut in before Harry could start arguing with Tom.

"Didn't expect you to join us, Granger," Anthony added. "Don't you usually study alone?"

"I prefer to," the Gryffindor told him proudly. "Way fewer people who bother me and stop me from concentrating-"

"Oh, how you're doing now?"

"-but I have something to discuss with Harry."

The aforementioned boy perked up.

"Have you made some plans for our first study schedule?" he asked eagerly, his own essay forgotten.

Hermione nodded. "All of this-" She gestured at a thick envelope holding pieces of parchment of various sizes. "-is the material for our first gathering."

Harry looked the huge, A3-sized thing up and down.

"Are you sure we're going to have the time to discuss all of this in just an hour or two?"

"An hour or two?" Hermione drew up to her full height. "Sweet Heavens, we would never! I was thinking of making it last at least four hours! And that's only if I'm being modest."

"Modest, huh," Anthony mumbled. "Granger, you are too exhausting to live."

"Some people actually like working, Goldstein."

"As a person who likes working," Tom interrupted, "even I find it hard to understand why on earth we would want to spend so much time on a single topic that isn't even that relevant. Study smart, not hard, Granger." He took the envelope with two fingers and raised it sceptically. "I bet I would be able to weed out half of this as unnecessary."

"He has a point," Su said. "Perhaps you could only outline the topic and write out the rest as some sort of additional reading material?"

Hermione looked despondent.

"But how would we know what sort of material we would need for the exam?"

"If you want," Harry offered, "I could ask Professor Quirrell that?"

Tom looked up from his book at that, obviously surprised because just a few minutes earlier Harry had been loudly complaining about Quirrell and not wanting to see neither hide nor hair of their teacher for days after the stunt the man had pulled at the class.

"I could go ask him with you, I guess-" Hermione began.

"Oh no. I can go alone." Harry shrugged. "Really, it's fine. He's not going to kill me, I think, nor bite me."

"He might kill you," Tom cut in. "Kill you with boredom, I mean."

"Well, maybe he does have some nice sides to him as well?"

"He might simply be afraid of crowds," Su suggested, the most level-headed of them all, before returning to her Transfiguration essay. Harry knew her secret wish was to beat Hermione and Tom in that subject, and he wanted to see the looks on both their faces if that happened.

Meanwhile, Anthony drank in a text on various sorts of woods suited for wandmaking - the boy's family prided itself on being one of the few left that crafted their wands themselves instead of relying on the flimsy wandmakers who had already prepared wands with set cores and wood types.

Anthony hadn't told Harry much about his research or the mysterious craft, but the Ravenclaw was determined to wheedle out the answers someday soon. It would be SO fantastic if he could make a wand and show it to Regulus!

"It's really okay," he said instead, containing his excitement. "I'll just go to Professor and ask him what sort of thing is necessary to know for passing an exam."

"It's a really pity that practicals aren't offered," Anthony complained.

"There's going to be a Duelling Club next year," Harry told them. "Or, at least, there are rumours that there might be one. I don't know how true they are, though, and have no way to check."

"That's fine," Su reassured him. "We'll see when the next year comes. I'd love a club, but I'm pretty sure that we are going to do well enough even without one."

* * *

Harry did keep his promise to go to Quirrell, although obviously he didn't disclose his real reason to chat with the man that sparked his interest.

He really should write to Uncle Reg. The man was always a treasure trove of facts and secrets, and, unless they were too gorey or important, he didn't mind revealing them to Harry. The man flattered Harry by trusting the boy to keep this fact to himself - although the title of an heir was an important one in the Wizarding World, it was far from something special enough to substitute true family. Most political mentors didn't invest so much time, money, and support into their protégés.

So, a cold October evening found Harry knocking on the door of his DADA Professor. The office hours were hardly over, but there was no other person in sight; not even the NEWT and the OWL students vied for a minute to spend discussing their progress with the useless teacher.

The steps behind the door were hesitant, surprised even, as if the man himself couldn't believe that a single person would choose _him_ to go to of all people (Hogwarts students had a tendency to go to Flitwick or McGonagall if they needed someone's assistance in his subject nowadays).

_Tough luck_ , thought Harry. _I'm cutting down on your plotting time!_

The door opened, and Harry schooled his expression into something much more neutral. A smile was more appropriate.

"Good evening, Professor!" he chirped brightly.

Quirrell blinked.

"Mr.. er... Mr Potter," he finally remembered. Harry didn't mind; in fact, he rather treasured those vague moments when people didn't recognise him and didn't rush to him to ask how his parents were doing.

"Professor. May I take up a bit of your time? Sir."

"O-of course. That's what office hours are for."

"It just seems rather empty here."

"It is. Not that I mind." The teacher laughed nervously.

"I wouldn't, either. So, anyway, sorry to bother you, um, sir. A large part of our curriculum for this year is taken up by the topic of ghosts, right?"

"I-indeed, Mr Potter. I made that c-curriculum myself. Ghosts are m-met frequently by any student of Hogwarts, obviously, so I thought that all children, especially m-muggleborns, must know their limits and how different they are f-from how m-muggle books make them seem. In m-my day there were accidents when my yearmates were s-so afraid of ghosts it p-prevented them from going places and doing homework." He chuckled. "H-homework especially was a sore spot for them. I'm a Ravenclaw, Mr Potter." He glanced at the badge on Harry's robes and tie. "You must understand all of what it entails."

"Yeah, true. But, well, there's just so MUCH about ghosts that it's hard to even start. I mean, what are the key features one should know when it comes to ghosts and protection from them?"

"I told about it during my lessons, Mr Potter."

Harry bit on his tongue, hoping that the Professor wouldn't remember that the boy preferred to spend his DADA class swapping messages with his classmates, and chatting, and doing homework for other subjects, ones he liked more. He guessed he was too used to being friends with Su, who, still convinced she had to prove something just for being a muggleborn, wrote down pretty much every word their professors were saying, and then shared her notes freely.

"You did tell us, Professor, but I'd like to go into more detail," Harry lied. He tried to think up a question, the answer to which would give him something useful but at the same time not make his teacher suspect anything.

"For instance," he said as an idea popped into his head, "is there a way for ghosts to solidify?"

"G-ghosts are m-magic in transparent form," Quirrell responded after watching Harry's face carefully for a few seconds. "They cannot m-maintain a solid f-form for long, but sometimes just a few seconds is enough to take or move an object, or even to use their magic if they were a wizard or a witch during life. This is h-how m-muggle legends started."

"You seem to know really a lot."

"I AM a Professor here, Mr Potter." Quirrell twitched and fiddled with the intricately carved doorknob behind him.

Harry got the vibe he was rather unwelcome.

"...right. I must go now, but... Could I come here again? If I ever need to clarify something?"

Alarm darted across the man's face.

"It's m-my job," he muttered.

He hurried back in and slammed the door shut. It prevented Harry from getting a single glimpse inside the man's office.

* * *

Tom was returning to the dungeons and minding his own business, when something he had both dreaded but warily expected finally happened.

Slytherins weren't happy with the presence of a mudblood in their ranks.

The evidence of this notion barricaded his passage in the form of two Slytherins, obviously pureblood, obviously in Quidditch uniforms, obviously holding wands, obviously old enough to know how to use those wands.

"You're- what's it's name, Adrian?" a boy, too big and too rough, asked his companion, tall and long-haired.

The companion, Adrian, possessed a low, pleasant voice and a nice smile that didn't look ominous despite his intentions.

"Don't bother with a mudblood's name. Who knows, you might get a disease even by saying it. Mud is very carrying when it comes to diseases, I can tell you," he said, and with his voice even insults resembled compliments.

"I'm going to the dormitory," Tom interrupted them. He clenched his hands into fists, but kept up a charming smile, despite grinding his teeth. "If you insist on talking, I'd rather you did it somewhere else. Who knows who might come across us, and here you are, speaking words you have no business uttering in polite company."

"Mudbloods always believe that someone will actually care enough to save them." The stocky one sniggered.

Tom shoved past, his heart hurting because of the truth those words viciously proclaimed, but was violently thrown against the wall by one of his attackers, the one with the bigger build.

"How dare you ignore us?" Spittle landed on Tom's cheek, and he vowed that whatever may come, he would gut this person. "Do you even know who we are?"

"Dead meat, if you don't move now," Tom hissed and poked his wand under his captor's ribs.

In his mind he pleaded for a teacher to come by him now, for Daphne Greengrass, for a member of another House… But he only had himself and his wand. Suddenly, it wasn't enough.

"Threatening," Adrian deadpanned. His light brown hair, wavy and shining, sparkled under the fake sun beams flowing into the dungeons through enchanted windows, and he looked angelic enough for Tom to know that if a teacher came across, the older Slytherin would beguile them onto his side.

"You cannot use Dark Arts at Hogwarts," Tom told them icily. "And casting spells in the corridors is prohibited."

He suppressed a shiver when both older Slytherins chuckled at him.

"There is this wonderful thing called blind spots, and we have waited specifically for you. It's a proven method." The stocky one shot him a smarmy smile, while Adrian tapped his wand against the palm of his hand.

Fear gripped Tom for the second time since coming to Hogwarts.


	9. On the Clifftop of Realisations

Before Tom spoke a single curse, before a compulsion fell from his lips, before he could summon that power dormant inside him, Adrian acted first. One charm, and Tom’s lips locked together. Words… the only weapon he wielded was torn away from him.

“I don’t particularly like vermin defending itself,” said Adrian with a beatific smile. “Montague, he is all yours.”

Fury roared inside Tom’s heart, and he kicked, as forcefully as his stature allowed, the older Slytherin in the crotch. Montague wailed. Tom’s triumph fell away like ashes when a spell flung him back against the wall. A stunning spell landed, and an aggravated hiss from Adrian snapped Montague away from his misery, making the bigger boy stride up to Tom and punch him in the stomach.

Tom remembered the bullies in the orphanage.

Tom remembered their screams and tears. The fear.

The light-haired wizard leant back on the wall and enjoyed the show. Montague tapped his wand against Tom’s elbow and started tracing it, slowly, almost tenderly, transfixed.

Tom’s body went numb. He didn’t feel his forearm when a cut sprung up in the wand’s wake.

He remembered hate mixed with terror etched onto the faces of the children and the souls of the caregivers. Whispers trailing after him.

Most of all, he remembered power.

One by one, droplets of blood blossomed on the sleeve of his uniform. Sweet tang hung in the air. Adrian’s lips quirked up. Montague engraved crimson ornaments onto his arm, not overly deep, but ones that would be painful if Tom retained the ability to feel.

The boy lowered his eyes to stare at the design of tears of red, and this was the moment he knew: Montague and Adrian would die. Rage surpassed common sense, and he realised he didn’t even need words, or wands, or Dark Magic, or compulsion. Just belief in his power. The power building up in him right now.

In his mind, heads already rolled.

Tom shot Montague a smile that made him stop.

The magic was an inch from release-

A fist collided with Montague’s face, and the spell shattered. Tom woke up from his trance and realised what he had almost done. He had almost killed the boys. Had he succeeded… his wand would have been snapped and he himself would have been carted off to that prison shrouded in mystery and surrounded by ghoulish things feeding on happiness, the magical world closed to him forever.

No, Tom would need to find the means to destroy the senior Slytherins using other means.

“What the fuck ya doin’?” a voice shouted. Tom pulled out of his thoughts to look at his – his lips twisted downwards in distaste – saviour.

It was a tall, burly boy with dark skin and cropped hair. Brown eyes ablaze, he smacked Montague a couple times more for a good measure, making Tom’s heart sing, before turning to face Adrian.

“Take your lapdog and get the hell outta here, Pucey,” he warned. “If I see you bully kids again, no matter their House, blood, affiliations, or whatever you think makes them undeserving of your illustrious company, I’ll punch all your teeth out and let’s see how prettily you’ll smile then.”

Adrian flinched. “You behave unreasonably-“

The newcomer stared at him incredulously. “You still here?”

The blue-eyed Slytherin pressed his lips together, anger in his eyes, but gestured for Montague to follow him as he sauntered away. His pace was just a notch below running. Tom sent a nasty smirk at their backs and covertly, so his ‘saviour’ wouldn’t see and judge, hexed them. Neither would be able to wash for a week at least.

It didn’t sate his thirst for revenge at all, but that required careful planning. For now, he turned to the other Slytherin, who was awkwardly scratching the skin behind his ear.

“Hey. I’m Warrington, same year as those arseholes. Sorry that this happened. You okay?”

“It’s not you who should be saying sorry,” Tom said. He stepped away from the wall and straightened his clothes, his face nonchalant. “My name is Tom Riddle.”

“Muggleborn?” asked Warrington, already knowing the answer.

“Are _you_?”

“Nah, not exactly, but with those guys might as well be, eh? They don’t really care about nuances.”

“They don’t treat you badly,” Tom remarked, regaining his composure quickly. Warrington grinned.

“We’re on the Quidditch team together. So, they pretend my blood’s not as dirty as they are damn sure it is, ‘cause the option of being beaten by Gryffindor without me pains them too much to be real.”

Warrington surveyed the blood-soaked sleeve of Tom’s shirt, reminding Tom to dig his school robe out of the bag and put it on to cover the damage. It didn’t hurt much, and the blood flow stopped by now, but throbbed annoyingly, and the fabric of his shirt clung to his skin.

"I’m trash with healing charms, so you’re on your own here, buddy,” Warrington admitted. He kept rubbing at his neck now, and while usually such habits drove Tom mad, he magnanimously forgave it this once.

“What do I owe you for this?”

Warrington blinked before coughing into his fist.

“Just come to the Quidditch match, ‘kay? We need to get a mass of people to cheer for us when we shred the ‘Puffs.”

“Let us hope it won’t be them doing the shredding,” Tom found himself replying automatically. Warrington barked in laughter.

He didn’t understand why the boy would come to help him… but even he couldn’t ignore the warmth sinking in his chest.

It almost trumped the hatred, rage, and ire. _Almost_.

 

* * *

 

 

So late in the evening letters began to smudge in Harry's eyes as he wrote his first letter to Uncle Reg this term. For some reason, he felt anxious. What if he wrote the wrong thing? What if Regulus didn't even need nor expect Harry to write to him? What if he was too busy, and reading Harry's letter would inconvenience him in the wrong moment?

Harry sighed and crumpled the piece of parchment into a ball of messy ink. A quick trick burnt it.

He looked around the common room. It was Music Monday, a special day of the week in Ravenclaw when every music lover out there decided either to try their skills in public or listen to what the others sang. Thus, the common room brimmed with people willing to study under the beautiful sounds, people who wanted to listen to their favourite songs, and simply the people who came there by chance and stayed.

At the moment a pretty, lanky girl was playing the piano, while her friend - could it be the pureblood Chang family? Harry was sure he had seen the girl on a gathering once or twice but never bothered to make friends with her - was accompanying her on the guitar. Their duet filled the place with a haunting melody, one that even had the usually stoic Grey Lady smile softly and shake in tact to the music.

No one knew any lines to sing, but people enjoyed it nonetheless.

Harry's attention was diverted from the piano and the guitar when a raven swooped in. He recognised it as the raven that guarded the common room, and blinked when the bird flew in his direction, landing in front of him on the polished surface of the cherry wood. Harry glared when it barely escaped the inkwell, almost sweeping it off the table.

"People would generally apologise in this occasion," he told it sullenly.

The bird only stared at him with its unblinking black eyes.

"There is a guest for Mr Potter at the entrance," it notified him curtly. Before Harry could even ask who it was, the infernal creature already took off to return to its guard post.

No matter. Harry already had a hunch who would be the person to find the Ravenclaw common room and demand his presence as if it were just a thing that was done.

He rose and went to greet his strange friend, happy for the distraction.

 

* * *

 

 

"What are your healing skills?" came the question as soon as Harry stepped out of the common room.

"Um. I tried to heal a mouse once and ended up splitting it open."

For the first time ever Harry heard Tom swear under his breath.

When he looked closer, he noticed not only that but also a horrible gash on the side of his arm. Harry had only read about them, but he guessed that it was one of those very advanced Light slicing spells - conveniently classified as Dark by the Ministry’s rules.

He rushed to Tom's side to check it, but the Slytherin only hissed at him to stay away, “I don't need to be split open, thank you very much!”

"You look like you need help," Harry said then, hand outstretched. "Come, I'll take to Madame-"

He stopped when he realised that Madame Pomfrey would immediately see that the wound was inflicted by a Dark spell, and would have to interrogate Tom all about the perpetrators. And while Tom could confess and disclose the names of whoever it had been, it would tarnish his reputation in Slytherin irreparably and he could about forget ever fitting into his House. It wasn't one that tolerated disloyalty against their own, after all.

Tom’s eyes showed that he had calculated the risks and decided against it.

“Outsiders must never know," Harry recited out loud one of the phrases Uncle Reg used often enough for it to lay its nest in Harry's mind. He shook his head to clear his mind.

"All right, no infirmary. Spellwork by me is more likely to mutilate you than help you, but I've got a potion. Well, several potions. At least a couple of them might help you, I think – your attackers obviously didn't aim to kill you, so it’s not deep, we’ve just got to disinfect it and maybe have you drink a Blood Replenishing Potion."

Tom mulled over this for a while, keeping his arm away from his torso to avoid sullying the rest of his shirt.

"Do you even know which potions are going to help me?" he asked. His eyes squinted at Harry suspiciously.

Harry responded with an eyeroll to the sky - or, well, the ceiling.

"My mum has some written instructions,” he explained. His mind frantically dragged the memories of where he had put the damn things out of the recesses of his memory.

"Then, why in the world are you still here, Potter? Quick, and don't you dare leave me hanging here!" Tom hissed.

"How can I not fulfil this nice, polite request?" Harry snapped back but still obediently hurried to his dorms, steps echoing the empty hallway, just like Tom had known he would. Harry would never, for all his faults, leave someone's wounds untreated.

When he returned, Tom was tapping his foot impatiently and acted as if he had received a deadly wound in a mortal medieval duel rather than a rather innocent scratch, which was, granted, a bit bigger than scratches usually were, but magic healed things much worse than that.

Harry still couldn’t shake off the relief that he had found the right potions.

"Here! Hope you're having fun drinking these!" Harry shoved the several flasks he had fished out of his trunk's hidden compartment, and smirked.

His smirk only intensified when Tom took a tentative sip, choked and coughed.

"Tasty, yeah?" he mocked.

Tom speared him with a glower.

"I swear I will have you eating owl pellets after this, Potter."

"All right, I won't be helping you next time. Do learn to accept help gracefully before you ask for it, okay?"

Suddenly irritated, Harry would have stormed out of there if not for Tom's hand grabbing his sleeve.

"Fine," the Slytherin bit out, and he looked about as happy with it as would have been enforcing his own threat on himself. "Stay here, I don't mind."

Harry didn't get a sorry, but he hadn't expected it anyway; Tom simply didn't strike him as the sort of person to apologise freely. Not that Harry would forgive him if the boy was too rude in the future, because a terrible personality could never be an indulgence from sins, but today Tom did seem like a victim, and Harry wouldn’t chew him out.

So, when Tom rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to see whether the potions would take effect, Harry sighed and let go.

"I can call a house elf to bring something to us-“ the Ravenclaw started before clapping his hands. “Wait. Better yet, I'm pretty sure you want to vent, so how about we go somewhere cosier?"

"I don't want to vent," Tom murmured and haughtily raised his chin, but didn't fight Harry when the Ravenclaw led him down the tower and into the nearest empty classroom he could find. It was dusty and vandalised by one of Peeves' pranks, but they found some chairs to sit and a table to set the half-empty potions vials on, and the boys made themselves comfortable. (Albeit Tom glowered at the chunks of dust for a long while before casting a powerful cleaning charm).

Harry decided to act like the situation was normal and turn the whole thing into a tea party for two – Uncle Reg always said a person couldn’t mope when there was tea to drink – hence his decision to summon a house elf. He quickly requested tea with something sweet. The creature vanished and the boys settled into a peaceful silence.

"Your common room is guarded awfully," the Slytherin boy suddenly said. Harry, occupied by drawing circles on the dirty window, jumped at the suddenness.

"Oh." He blinked and cocked his head.

Tom nodded. Every word was a stab of disapproval as he continued, "Indeed. Anyone can enter as long as they have a smattering of brain matter in their heads, at least enough to solve the riddle. No security at all. On the other hand, if the Ravenclaw is daft, but needs to take something out immediately or even get help, they would die sooner than they would get it if they can’t figure out the answer." Tom scowled. “Not that I would be sorry for them. Nothing deserves a punishment more than stupidity.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

"A lively ball of positivity, aren’t you. It’s not that bad. For instance, the raven has learnt to identify the students of each year.” His eyes lighted up with mischief as he leaned down and whispered, “ _And_ we’ve got pamphlets with the solutions to his riddles going around! It's a bit of a cheater move, but this way even the dumbest 'Claw can find their way around and won't be left out of the common room for the night if they happen to have a habit of taking very late walks past the curfew."

To Harry’s disappointment, Tom wasn’t listening to him. His eyes fixed on his arm, the place where the scratch was slowly closing. Harry remained silent with him until it vanished, the only traces left being the smears on the used-to-be pristine white shirt.

"You seem very happy in Ravenclaw," he said finally. He didn't even once take one of the tarts a house elf had brought them. "Does nothing at all disappoint you about your House?"

"Well, many things are not as I had imagined they would be," Harry replied slowly. He took the time to think over his answer, indulging Tom's pensive mood. "But that's only expected, isn't it? You never know what something really is until you experience it yourself."

"Slytherin is not at all how I imagined upon reading the books. I believed that cunning and ambition as the treasured traits would mean that cunning and ambitious people would be valued over everyone else..."

"And they go for those with blood and money instead." Harry nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, but isn't this the same as in the muggle world?"

Tom’s words were so quiet Harry could pretend he didn’t hear them:

"That's the point. It was never supposed to be like the muggle world."

And Harry understood at that moment that Tom belonged to that category of muggleborns who idealised wizards and witches. His mother had been one of those, and she had told him all about the expectations she had had before going to Hogwarts. She had also told him how it had crushed her, having all of them so mercilessly broken. Still, she had risen in the world that abhorred and mistreated the likes of her, and she never wavered in her conviction, and she never once renounced her heritage, even when becoming a part of a famous wizarding family such as the Potters. She prided herself on her blood.

Harry was convinced that Tom would achieve greatness just as well, even entirely on his own...

But such important journeys should never be made alone. So, Harry would help him, if just for a bit.

He didn't know what drove him to be around the muggleborn boy so much, when he honestly didn't always understand muggleborns, and Tom's personality left much to be desired, but his soul tugged at him to be closer to the Slytherin and more open than he would have been with anyone else. Judging by the older boy's behaviour, Harry was pretty sure that this connection wasn't one-sided.

"Look. I don't know that much about the Slytherin house - aside from what Uncle Reg told me, but his experiences were obviously a tad different from yours – but I do know a bit about revenge." He ignored the pang in his chest. "So, how about you tell me the name of the arsehole who hurt you and we'll see what we can do?"

Tom's lips quirked.

"Adrian and Montague. Both purebloods and 3-d years."

Harry paused for a second.

"Do you mean Adrian Pucey and Ganymede Montague? They seemed okay enough blokes the last time I saw them-"

"Then you obviously have to speak with them as a muggleborn." Tom glared and Harry stifled the urge to back away from the ferocity in his gaze. "Honestly, Potter. Does it not even enter your tiny brain, the possibility that our background not only makes _us_ experience the world differently but also that it makes _others_ treat us differently?"

Harry’s mouth hung open a bit. He never delved into such thoughts. In his life he bumped both into utter bastards and complete darlings, and the amount of those belonging to the second category prevailed. Perhaps it had something to do with him being Uncle Reg's protégé, but-

Now he also entertained the possibility that although his mother's ancestry was privately considered a 'blot' on his family's tree by many purebloods, it didn't take away the fact that Harry himself was born into a wealthy family and had two famous and esteemed parents. Formerly, Harry had only seen the bad sides of his parentage, the imaginary taint his mother carried, but now, upon encountering Tom, Hermione, and Su, he was starting to change his attitude.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he really had been blind to the way the world was - but then, wouldn't that make Regulus, and Rodolphus, and Sirius, and Narcissa, and so many other people he knew... blind as well?

Harry resisted the urge to chuckle. Yes, he himself made mistakes, considering his lack of experience, but when so many people he respected held the same opinion...

They had to be right.

"Fine," he said out loud, leaving the matter alone. Anyway, he considered Tom his friend, and help to friends didn't have anything to do with the complications of blood purity. He felt his chest warm. _Friendship_. He could do it. The Marauders renewed. "Fine. Then, it’s Adrian and Ganymede we’re destroying." He paused. "Well, my initial plan was to make Uncle Reg somehow punish the parents of your bullies, but now that I think ‘bout it, if I actually complain, he might accidentally kill them... So, let's better not try it."

"It doesn't make a difference to me whether their parents survive or not." Tom shrugged. "In all honesty, it will not make me cry if their fathers suddenly don’t turn up."

"Don't joke," Harry demanded, shaking his head. "You're so bad at it I can't even say whether you are really joking."

Tom pursed his lips. "So, all right, killing their parents doesn't work.” He shot a disdainful look at Harry. “With you being who you are, killing them doesn’t work either. What does?"

"You haven't even had _some_ fantasies?"

"I'm afraid they are very much over PG-13, Potter. I doubt you would want me to fulfil one of them." Tom smirked.

"You make a good point," Harry conceded with a nod. He scrunched up his forehead in thought. "Right now, I don't really know anything that could be useful to us. I mean, they're both third years, so they know more than we do, and that's including the Dark Arts. In Gany- Montague’s case it's also the Light Arts, the classic version – his family is one of those who practise both. So, maybe we should just wait and discover if there is something they are both afraid of? A weakness of sorts?"

Tom hummed. "I know who we can ask," he said. "Warrington. That guy-" He grimaced, and Harry got the feeling there was something about the situation Tom wasn't telling him. "Well, I have heard that he is a classmate of theirs and they are on the Quidditch team together. And he does not mind standing up to them."

"Ceneric Warrington? I've heard about him. If it's him, yeah, he might be the sort of person to not only know what they are afraid of but actually help us."

"Why? What makes him unafraid?"

Harry leaned in to speak in hush tones, "His family is poor, and their lineage on his father's side can only be traced a few generations back. His mother is a muggle. And a few of his relatives are werewolves, even his siblings and an aunt. So, he's rather used to being an outcast."

"Let us hope that he is used to taking revenge as well," Tom said and smiled.

The smiled wasn't a malicious one, but somehow it still chilled Harry to the bone.

 

* * *

 

 

Happiness thrummed inside Tom when he realised that Harry thought he was joking about Montague’s and Pucey’s families getting killed. How nice. He wouldn’t lose his only almost-friend because of a meagre difference in morals.

Tom never joked about such matters, but he hoped Harry wouldn’t discover it just yet.

 

* * *

 

 

When Harry had asked Tom for advice in writing a letter, the boy hadn't recommended anything. So, he was once again left alone to tackle his letter problem. Merlin, if he felt this way just writing a letter to Regulus, he couldn't even imagine what writing to his parents would have been like. It was a good thing that he had decided to leave both of their letters unanswered (although he couldn't contain a smile every time he thought about his busy mother and harried father taking the time to pen him one).

When he looked at the final variant, it still left him unsatisfied, but, well, at this point there was hardly anything Harry could do about it.

_Hello,_

_How have you been? You’ve probably found out from someone by now that I'm a Ravenclaw. The Hat offered me all four Houses, but I decided that this is the place that suits me the most._

_The life here doesn’t coincide with the fantasies I had about it. For instance, I thought that being in Ravenclaw was all about groups: study groups, and interests groups, and reading stuff in groups together... but in reality everyone is occupied with their own thing, and you hardly see more than a couple of students together, and it's a bit hard to make friends. I'm sorry if I can't make the necessary amount of acquaintances. I’m failing you. Sorry._

_The teachers are different. Some are great – I really love Professor Flitwick's lessons (and, by the way, I'm part of his Charms Club, just like you were!) and McGonagall is much nicer than she wants people to see her. Snape's lessons are a nightmare, but it's nothing I wasn’t prepared for, and then there is Quirrell. They say that he was a great Muggle Studies professor, but teaching DADA is obviously not for him. Wonder how he even got the position. Maybe you could inquire whether he has any connections? Do you know anything at all about this guy?_

_He doesn't even tell us about possible protections against ghosts! I mean, sure, it's not required, per se, but it'd be nice to know. Really nice to know, considering that the castle is infested with them._

_(If you know anything about the topic, please don't be shy to tell me, Uncle Reg! Also, can ghosts be negotiated with or something?)_

_I miss our evenings together, too. Students are separated by the Houses usually, so I can't gather the usual group of people I talk to. Haven’t even seen Ron for ages. But I guess the only advantage to being a Ravenclaw is that no one thinks it's suspicious if you want to talk with the members of other houses or form study groups with them. If I were a Slytherin and doing the same, at least some would have thought I'm trying out for a Dark Lord type of thingy._

_Tell Kreacher I miss him._

_Harry_

 

It turned out a bit longer than Harry had thought to make it, but the length served as a sort of apology for taking so much time to write to him. Hopefully, his mentor wouldn't be too angry.

…If he bothered with reading it all, of course. Regulus surely had a dozen of more important things to do than reading letters.

Harry was even more sure of it when upsetting news arrived the next day.

 

* * *

 

 

One of the things Tom loved about mornings at Hogwarts was that they never resembled the mornings at the orphanage. He actually awaited those, and he could eat whatever he wished (the food at Wool's wasn't always that bad, but it was horribly unimaginative and pretty much always the same), and read, and magic permeated the air around him, and it would be heaven-

"Sweet Morgana, Riddle, I feel sick just watching you with a darn book of all things so early in the morning."

-if not for the people who could have sat anywhere else at the half-deserted table but, for some mysterious reason, decided that sitting next to Tom was what they wanted to do with their life.

"At least it's not something muggle," Tracey Davis said loudly, buttering her toast. “Hoping to become a wizard by reading about Transfiguration, eh, Riddle?”

_I_ am _a wizard_ , Tom thought, resisting the urge to snap her neck. Vindictively, he remembered her failure to transfigure a doorknob into a bottle. His brain overflowed with ideas on how to humiliate her further in class.

"This is awful. I would never be caught dead reading a book like this," Nott complained.

_Idiot_ , Tom thought. He turned the page and immersed himself deeper into the history behind the moving staircases, and how transfiguration was involved.

"Or reading any book not in the curriculum at all." Zabini grinned.

"It is only wise to know about the place where you live, especially when there are very real things hidden in the castle itself that could kill you," Tom decided to enlighten them. Greengrass nodded by his side before punching Nott’s shoulder, making the boy yelp.

Not that Tom would mind if any of them ended up dead, so long as he couldn't be connected to the murder.

Their morning banter was interrupted by the owls sweeping into the Great Hall, flying majestically to every student and dropping papers and letters.

"The Prophet arrived just an hour ago. A special issue?" Daphne said with a frown. It grew into a grimace of horror when she read the article in the newspaper. Whispers spread across the Great Hall, both among the teachers and the students, and the atmosphere crackled with a mix of tenseness, horror, and fear.

Tom wondered what caused all the fuss until he put away his book and leaned over Zabini's shoulder to see the article/

Right on the first page there was a terrifying picture of a dog-like creature tearing apart a wizard in an Auror uniform. Even Tom couldn't contain a shudder. A few of his classmates promptly went green.

"London: Attacked by Werewolves!" the headline proclaimed. Funny how one short article could send the entire school in a flurry. After reading the text – which was mostly just a detailed description of what a pack of werewolves did to a small patrol of Aurors, which was way too explicit and made Tom wonder whether there were any child protection laws in the Wizarding World – the place was filled with speculative chatter and angry mutterings. People contemplated the reasons as to why someone would commit such a ghastly deed, and apparently fell short on reasons.

"Damn mutts! I’ve always said that the Ministry has to eradicate them!" Daphne Greengrass hissed angrily, making Tom startled. He stared at her and couldn't believe the angry flush of fury spreading across her face, or the mad glint in her eyes, and tried to reconcile that person with the one who told him that being a muggleborn doesn’t make a person inferior, and tried to convince the members of the other houses that ambition doesn't equal evil.

Tom realised that just because a person didn't feel prejudice towards one group of people, it didn't necessarily mean that this acceptance would spread to other groups of people, no matter how alike the situations were.

Even Tracey Davis was trying hard to calm the blonde down.

"...I'm not convinced that werewolves did all this just because it's in their nature to destroy or shit like this," Millicent Bulstrode grunted to Parkinson, who obviously didn't share her opinion. "There must be a reason. Violence almost always has."

"Could it be because of the recent wand-restricting laws?" Nott asked. Others quieted down for a moment, even Greengrass.

"This is stupid," Zabini murmured. "I mean, so what if they lost their wands? Yeah, it's tragic and all that, but certainly not enough to merit the killing of people."

Tom spitefully noted that had it been Zabini's wand taken and snapped, he would have kicked up a storm, and half the Wizengamot would be involved – Blaise's mother, after all, belonged to the ruling faction along with Regulus, the Lestranges and some others he wasn’t familiar with.

"For fuck's sake, Zabini, it's not like you honestly care about those lives, you just care about bringing down anyone not human or magical enough for your tastes," Bulstrode voiced Tom's thoughts.

"Cussing is unbecoming of a lady," Parkinson bit out, but everyone ignored her.

Tom, on the other hand, reflected on what he had heard about the wand-restricting laws for werewolves. They were very simple, honestly, and perhaps in that simplicity laid the horror of the situation: any werewolf found in the possession of a wand had to be taken to the Auror Department and have their wand confiscated. No one knew where they ended up afterwards; a lot of people assumed that the snapping would occur, but Tom doubted people would waste such a valuable resource. Perhaps there was even a warehouse of stolen- er, pardon, _confiscated_ goods hidden away and accessible only to the Ministry.

"Why do they have to be so showy about their resistance or whatever?" Daphne kept muttering. "I'm sure that this entire mess would have been evaded if they just stayed silent and didn't announce how unnatural they are at every corner. This makes me so angry I'll definitely make a werewolf pay if I ever see one."

"I'm sure they are sorry their pain inconveniences you," Crabbe said suddenly and flushed when the entire first year group turned their heads to look at him.

"Goyle," Davis said gently. "You were eating a cake. Keep eating, because it seems like stuffing your face is the only thing you can do right in the world."

“I’m not Goyle-“

“Do I look like I care?”

"I just don't understand," Malfoy spoke up, looking away from his goblet of mango juice (specifically asked from a house elf instead of the 'common' pumpkin one). "Why don't all the werewolves in Britain go to Ireland? Both we and they would be much safer this way."

"I didn't know you cared about werewolves, Draco," Nott said cheerfully. The gruesome images in the newspaper didn't damper his appetite in the slightest, and he was among the first to dig in again into the pretzel.

"I don't!" Malfoy bit out, indignant, as if Nott had just dealt him a great offence. "My father has a lot of contacts in Ireland – because he is _that_ magnificent, of course – and he told me that they are treated very differently there. Being a mutt is actually considered a privilege, and werewolves have a special department in the Ministry, not unlike our Auror office. People consult with them often. There are even special holidays and the like for werewolves there. So, why can't the ones we've unfortunately got here just leave?"

"This is their home," Bulstrode reminded everyone sharply. "They were born here and they have the right to stay here. They shouldn't have to leave just because _you_ find them undeserving."

"This is why you're never going to make friends, Bulstrode,” Greengrass jeered.

"As if I would ever need friends like you." The heavy-set girl snapped the book she constantly carried around her open, and read in silence, while the returning chatter at the table washed over her.

When Tom returned to the dormitory that night, he couldn’t decipher his emotions. He didn't like werewolves. Perhaps various books and horror films spoilt his perception of them, but he didn't trust the halfbreeds to live peacefully with the wizards. Giddiness burst in his chest when he realised that perhaps the monsters were hated with, in many cases, even more vigour than muggleborns.

It made him feel less alone than he would have otherwise been. And not only that, but it also made him realise that he could exploit this. He didn't yet know what stance he should take on the matter, which one would be more beneficial to him in the long run – that of a werewolf sympathiser or a werewolf hater, but he was pretty sure that by the time he graduated he would decide on one.

For now, Tom concentrated on his studies. He would study potions with Harry, go to those study sessions with Granger and the others, participate in the Charms Club gatherings, study Dark Magic from Snape's book, do the homework...

And one day he would make the likes of Pucey and Montague pay.

They hadn’t even spared him a second glance. Their gazes had just glided over him, as if he had been merely a toy to pass the time, and this disregard grated on his nerves than any promise ofenmity. For them, nothing extraordinary had occurred. They likely wouldn’t remember the accident at all later.

No matter. Tom remembered, and he assured himself that a lesson in respect ensued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone for their reviews! <3


	10. A Ghostly Chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! Even though I didn't respond to all of them (mostly because it would have been so late I doubted you'd even remember what my reply was about) I read them and swooned and laughed all the same! By the way, this is indeed a rewrite of a story I wrote long ago under the same title - thanks for caring enough to point that out!!! - but the changes are so massive that the only thing that stays the same is the premise :) Thanks, and I hope that you enjoy!

 

Plants couldn’t stand him. Even the very first class of Herbology showed this. The Devil's Snare always longingly crept in his direction, Angel's Aversion targeted him out of all students, even ordinary flowers that hid but a kernel of magic in them withered under his touch.

 

Tom pretended he was not sulking. He pretended he was not offended either.

 

As their group of four, consisting of him, Greengrass, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini, was set upon the task of replanting a Dentflower, a nasty purple little thing snapping its venomous teeth - and honestly, did wizards even know the concept of child safety? - at him, he enviously side-eyed the effortless movements of Zabini as he dodged a vicious bite. Nott fared worse, but not by much - the boy still managed to stand close enough to the blasted thing and didn't bear a wound.

 

Of course, there wasn't a scrape on Tom either, but that was because... He eyed the distance between him and the plant. Was it really that bad if he stayed there for the rest of the class?

 

At least Greengrass looked as terrified as Tom felt- would feel, if such emotions hadn't been utterly beneath him, of course. The girl's marks in Herbology plummeted by day, and some even whispered she was going to get one of those screaming scarlet envelopes, the Howlers, the purpose of which was to humiliate, and embarrass, and mortify. Not that she didn't manage to do it all by herself.

 

Sprout kept sending frowns and shakes of her head in the girl's direction. Tom's nonexistent heart decided to help.

 

"You are too conspicuous," he murmured. His brows furrowed in irritation when the girl didn't hear him and craned her head towards him, and he repeated himself, "It's all right to leave all the work to Zabini and Nott, but if you don't want a Troll again, pretend you are doing at least  _ something _ ."

 

Sprout chose that moment to look Tom's way, and the boy quickly made a grand show of observing the plant and digging the soil, making sure to keep the tool as far as possible. He wasn’t even sure if he was  _ supposed  _ to dig anything that lesson. Nonetheless, the professor beamed and turned away. She beamed even further at Longbottom who, for all his incompetence at school and life in general, managed infuriatingly well.

 

Greengrass sighed in jealousy and tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear.

 

"Wish my reflexes were like that."

 

"You know, you could sharpen them by maybe coming over and helping us here?" Nott called out to her, wiping the sweat off his brow with one hand and rubbing purple bites on his his forearm with the other. While Tom and the girl relaxed at the sidelines,, both other Slytherin boys ducked and swiped for shelter from the plant's tiny but hurtful teeth, elongated like a vampire's incisors.

 

Greengrass waved him off. "We're pretty comfortable here, don't mind us!"

 

Nott grumbled something unintelligible. Zabini shot a fistful of levitated mud at them, and Tom was quick to cast his own Wingardium Leviosa and levitate it away from him and Greengrass - a trick they learnt in the Charms Club, when Tom and Harry finished their tasks, with Tom coming a few seconds earlier, obviously, and Flitwick decided to show them how to use the charms in their schoolbooks creatively.

 

It wasn't that easy to overpower someone else's spell, Tom discovered. A hit or miss kind of thing, really. Still, he so hated to lose that his willpower simply overrode the willpower of the other person casting the spell, subjugating foreign magic completely, making Tom feel wizardly and  _ powerful _ .

 

Greengrass whistled.

 

"I didn't know you could do that with Leviosa," she told him and flushed. "Could you teach me?"

 

Tom suppressed a scowl. He wanted people to admire and worship him for his magic, but did he really have to explain  _ how  _ he did that? Besides, better hoard the bits of knowledge to himself. You never know when you need a trick someone else can't do. A trick someone else didn’t know existed.

 

"Probably," he replied non-committally. "You could find out how to do this and more if you go to the Charms Club with Professor Flitwick."

 

_ I really hope not. There is enough of a crowd there as it is. _

 

Thankfully, he read no desire to do that on Greengrass' face either.

 

"No, thanks.” She shuddered and backed away. The Dentflower another team was planting reached for her and grazed her skirt before the girl stumbled away, throwing a glare at the teeth and the Gryffindor girls failing at their job. “I want to receive good marks, but I'm not going to go out of the way and do more homework than I have to. There are better things to do than that."

 

"For instance?" Tom prompted.

 

He honestly wondered what wizards and witches at Hogwarts did when they were not busy with their homework or stupid games like Quidditch and the Exploding Snap. Well, he could understand that the upper years circling in politics and business, especially Slytherins but also members of other houses, socialised and discussed topics pertaining to the world outside of Hogwarts, and sometimes even participated, through letters, in adult life - words like ‘Wizengamot’, and ‘legislature’, and ‘Ministry’ flitted in and out of the conversations around the common room. Yet he didn't know a single hobby wizards took up except for sports, games, or studying magic.

 

"Hum... let's see..." Greengrass twirled a blond curl. Tom burnt with the desire to snap her hand away; he despised people twiddling or twirling things in their hands, or tapping their feet or fingers. Why couldn't everyone be still and silent? "I can write letters to Tory - my little sister, Astoria, you are so meeting her next year and I promise you are going to love her! - and my parents. Bicker with Nott. This little cockroach thinks too much of himself just because his dad is just as cool as Malfoy's. Think about what I'm going to wear for the next week and re-sort my collection of high stockings. Read that novel I've been putting off for months..."

 

She grinned and grabbed Tom's shoulder, making the boy teeter. If she wanted to increase his irritation, he could congratulate her on her success.

 

"And the best thing is," she breathed out, "I could go party!"

 

Tom just stared at her, unimpressed.

 

She deflated. "Well, not exactly now... but in a year we can go to those parties that seventh years do. I just wonder why it can't be now. I mean, isn't it unfair that we've got to be kicked out of the common room the entire week before Samhain just because those idiots want to get drunk?"

 

Party? Kicked out? Tom didn't think he was following her anymore.

 

Greengrass caught his glance.

 

"Oh, right, you don't know... Listen. You do know that we celebrate Samhain, right?"

 

Tom's glare intensified. He wasn't stupid, and he had read about the magical holidays the very day he bought the book introducing him to their world. 

 

Greengrass took the desire to violently slaughter her for dragging this out swimming in his eyes as a yes.

 

"On Samhain itself, we have traditional rituals to perform, be they Light or Dark. But, in Slytherin, the entire week before it we have parties every night. It's a special time when even members of the other Houses are invited - albeit you can understand that we have the tendency not to invite too many Gryffindors.” She grimaced. “Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are fair game. though. Anyway, these parties are  _ wild _ . And they are in our common room. And this means that first and second years have to stay cooped up in dorms for most of the week, except during day time.”

 

She paused, frowned, and added, “It's strange that you haven't heard it in a conversation somewhere. I mean, it's not exactly a secret."

Tom’s lips pulled up in a cold smile. Staying in the common room while the rest of the first years were warned away would be a convenient excuse for any upper year in an angry mood to justify hurting him.

 

_ Hurting him. _

 

As if he would allow such a thing  _ again _ .

 

Tom’s memory brought up visions of rabbits and rafters, caves and shrieks, locked cupboards and screams from the inside.

 

One day, he would collect Montague’s tears and Pucey’s cries. Put them in a box where not even Dumbledore’s magic reached.

 

"This is not something I would expect from our House. Do Slytherins have other parties?" he asked Greengrass instead, focusing on the now. Nothing brought triumph closer quite like knowledge.

 

"Of course! I mean, we're more partying than Gryffindors. I guess it's because so many of us are purebloods, and purebloods too often have to participate in politics even when we don't really want to - Dad is on the Board of Governors and in the Wizengamot, and he  _ hates  _ it - so when we're out of Hogwarts, we have to control ourselves in public and attend those official dinners and banquets, and it's simply not fun. So, we're having our fun while we still can. At Hogwarts.”

 

She smirked at him mischievously before blushing, as if she remembered who she was talking to.

 

"Still, the Samhain party and the end of year party are the only two major ones which take place in the common room. The year-end party isn't wild, so even we can attend, but it's for Slytherins only. The Yule party is-" she hesitated and tossed a quick glance around, stopping on Zabini and Nott "-somewhere I can't tell you yet. And there are some others, but they're not in the common room. I've also heard that Draco is planning on making his birthday the event of the year for all these seven years."

 

Tom almost sneered. Malfoy. Even  _ his  _ arrogance couldn't rival the blond's, and Tom  _ knew  _ he was arrogant. He knew he valued himself above all else and considered himself the best person ever since time immemorial, but he absolutely despised situations when other people decided to think like that as well. He supposed there was only so much ego nature could take at once.

 

"What about your family?” Daphne asked Tom suddenly. “They're muggle, so they don't celebrate Samhain like we do, right? You guys have got Halloween or something, like what we celebrate here at Hogwarts?" 

 

The boy pressed his lips and suppressed another scowl. A long-forgotten yearning crawled out of the cage he had contrived before Tom pushed it back. What use was a mother or a father? He had magic. All the family he needed.

 

"My family prefers not to celebrate at all," he snapped.

 

Greengrass flinched. "Sorry. I just- just thought you should know that Samhain is coming, not only because we'll have to stay all cooped up in our dorms that night, but also as a warning."

 

"Warning?"

 

"Um... yes. Traditionally, both Light and Dark witches - and wizards, of course - celebrate Samhain. Here in Britain, at least. Still, Hogwarts has a  _ Halloween  _ feast. Don't you wonder why?"

 

Tom despised the gleam of pity in her eyes.

 

"Dumbledore favours muggleborns," he deadpanned.

 

Sometimes he despised Dumbledore, too. Didn't the man see that pushing muggle traditions on the purebloods alienated them further and complicated the lives of people like Tom? He felt it every time when sitting in the Slytherin common room, when someone brought up a ban implemented because of muggleborns, or a spell forbidden because it could harm muggles, or a change in the Hogwarts curriculum that occurred because the staff believed certain facts would traumatise the muggle-raised too much...

 

Every time that happened, all eyes fell on him. Incinerating, judging, hateful.

 

He had believed he would escape it all when he escaped the orphanage. Reality kindly reminded him of his place.

 

Meanwhile, Greengrass nodded. She took his hand into hers, and Tom stared at the appendage with an expression of almost repulsion. Too cold, her hand.

 

"Personally, I don't blame muggleborns for this. It's really important that you understand it, Tom," she whispered, and her blue eyes stared imploringly into his brown ones. "I won't tolerate anyone bullying you just because you are a muggleborn and happen to be here, and they blame you because now they have to sneak about to celebrate the right way. But my family is also not the one who celebrates Samhain, and I'm in the minority. So, I just advise you to be careful."

 

Tom wrenched his hand out of her grip, pretending for Sprout that she had passed him some Herbology-related tool.

 

"Are you taking me for an idiot? I am astute enough to realise that I will have to spend most of the day elsewhere."

 

"Well, with the way some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are smitten with you, I'm sure it won't be a problem." Greengrass chortled. "You seem  _ awfully  _ chummy with that Potter guy - Harry, isn't he? Of Healer Potter and her husband?"

 

"We do talk occasionally."

 

"He's a good bloke, from what Theo told me. If there's anyone who can help you, it's him. I doubt he'll turn you away if you come to him."

 

"I know he won't."

 

_ He will do whatever I ask of him because Harry is kind and helpful, sickeningly so - but I am not going to tell you just how good he is because then you may end up using him, too, and I am the only one who should be allowed to do so. _

 

A moment later saw Greengrass finally joining Zabini and Nott in wrestling with the plant, mere minutes before the bell, while Tom pretended that he had done his part already and got a few points from Sprout for answering tricky theoretical questions, which Tom would take over practicals any day. So, he was allowed to rest on one of the wrought-iron chairs and think.

 

Samhain. The holiday venerating the dead. The day of the year when you could catch a glimpse of someone who was once alive but now rested forever underneath.

 

Tom wondered if... just if...

 

Maybe. Maybe he could-

 

He detested it.

 

Detested the thrumming in his veins, the lightheadedness, the silliest, most moronic  _ smile  _ that threatened to break out on his face at the mere mention of a vague possibility.

 

He detested it, and yet-

 

He wondered if, finally, this Samhain, he would glimpse the dead witch that had given birth to him.

 

* * *

 

Harry gravitated towards Tom Riddle. It wasn't a conscious decision - of that he was certain. Most of the time, he wasn't even aware that wherever he went, the other would inevitably be there - sitting in a cozy corner of the library, chatting with Su or Lisa or Anthony or, lately, reluctantly, even Hermione, standing at the corner and marvelling at the sights of Hogwarts, believing that no one saw him...

 

Sometimes, Tom didn't notice him. Other times, he was forced to.

 

Like now, when they literally bumped into each other in a corridor on the third floor.

 

"Potter! Throwing people to the ground is not the best hobby you could acquire."

 

Harry gasped and grinned apologetically before rushing to help Tom to his feet. The Slytherin was surprisingly light, and Harry pulled him up with no trouble at all. He glanced at Tom’s slender fingers, at his bony wrist.

 

"I do this only to you," he replied cheekily, laughing at Tom's unimpressed look. “And you’re still awfully cozy.”

 

The Slytherin immediately brushed his hair, returning it to its not-a-strand-out-of-place state, and Harry snorted a laugh again. 

 

"I already know how special I am, no need to emphasise it in such a way," Tom replied haughtily. Drawing himself to his full height - and Harry envied the way the Slytherin towered over him, and desperately hoped that puberty would work its magic on him sometime soon - Tom suddenly smiled.

 

Harry backed away. Almost.

 

"Harry-" the Slytherin began.

 

Harry put up a hand in front of him, making Tom blink and halt in his speech.

 

"No. Whatever you're offering, I'm probably going to refuse."

 

The smile slid off Tom's face. Guilt nibbled on Harry's conscience.

 

"It is nothing too onerous for you, but if you refuse to even give me a chance to voice my thoughts..." Tom started to turn around, but Harry grabbed his elbow, almost in panic, because he considered Tom his friend, and even knowing this was a trick of some sort - he'd be damned if his refusal to listen to the guy really upset him - he couldn't stomach the disappointment on his face, the pain.

 

_ Bloody hell, that's why I'll never go into politics, whatever Uncle Reg says _ , Harry thought with irritation.  _ All they'd have to do to convince me to pass a bill is to make a hurt face, and I'll happily sign whatever they shove onto my desk. _

 

"Okay. Fine, Tom. You can speak. Just- I don't promise I'll agree, of course."

 

Tom's hurt expression slid off his face like water off stones and he smirked.

 

"You are too easily manipulated," he pointed out. "I believe you should rid yourself of this habit - or too many people will use you."

 

"Being manipulated is not a choice, you bloody moron!" Harry exclaimed and pointed his finger. "And what, they'll use me like you are doing now?"

 

Tom nodded, apparently satisfied that Harry understood him.

 

"Exactly. Now, shut up, stop your whinging, and listen. There is Samhain coming and apparently the muggleborns are not exactly welcome in Slytherin at this time of the year." His expression darkened, and there it was again, that gleam, that shard of danger in Tom's face that Harry couldn't pinpoint but shivered anyway. "Or any other time of the year. And someone advised me to spend most of the day with someone else."

 

Harry stood still for a second before blinking.

 

"That's it? You just want to hang out with me?" He grinned and, abruptly, knowing perfectly well how much this was going to horrify the other boy, flung himself onto Tom in a smothering hug. "Oh, Tom, if you want to spend time with me, just ask! I promise I won't refuse. Just make fun of you, but..."

 

"Get off me!" Tom shrieked. Harry burst into laughter at the sound, but when magic crackled dangerously in the air around them- he drank in the colours of the aura, and tasted static in his mouth, and- he complied.

 

But Tom's cheeks reddened, and his face twisted in such a horrified and disgusted grimace that Harry laughed harder.

 

"I definitely don't want to hang out with you! We never do this, anyway! What we do is called  _ studying  _ together, definitely not 'hanging out'!"

 

"And," Harry began, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, "I suppose you want us to not-hang out- to study, I mean- on Samhain?"

 

Tom nodded, adding “And the week before.” 

 

When Harry finished wiping the tears, he warily moved back, as if afraid of another attack, but Harry only scrunched up his face in a frown, serious now.

 

"Well, for the most part, it's okay with me - but only until evening."

 

"Why not evening? I wasn't aware that you have specific plans in the evenings."

 

"It's Samhain. Obviously, I will have to set up a ritual."

 

Tom’s eyes narrowed. 

"A ritual, you say? Your parents are not dead."

 

He sounded as if he accused Harry.

 

Harry scowled. "Of course they aren't! But my grandma and grandpa are."

 

"Are you going to summon their spirits?"

 

Harry choked and glowered at Tom.

 

"Are you crazy? I'm still too young to attempt it without adult guidance. Also, not even most adults can summon spirits like you probably mean, unless they are Necromancers. There are many rituals one can perform on Samhain, both Light and Dark - I'm going with the first, obviously, but your friends in Slytherin can point you to the second - and what I'm going to do is just a small Remembrance Ritual Dad showed me a while ago."

 

Harry was suddenly overcome with that memory as if it happened yesterday. James' tender voice as he explained the history behind the ritual and its purpose, Lily drawing runes on the candle, her face screwed up in concentration, the warm tea they all drank before starting, the crimson of his blood that turned black when the candle flame engulfed it...

 

He missed his parents. He was angry, and hurt, and disappointed, but he missed them.

 

Not even the strongest Necromantic Samhain ritual could summon a being still alive, but he wondered if, when people changed, the old them died? Was there a way to return a memory and not the body? 

 

He would have traded the current Lily and James for their past counterparts gladly.

 

"I want to join," Tom declared, and those words tethered Harry to reality.

 

His eyes flew wide open.

 

"You- It's a  _ Light  _ ritual. I've told you so. Why would you want to take part?"

 

"Magic is magic. It is better than those muggle fools' traditions - honestly, trick-or-treating is disgusting and useless... I am a wizard and I will magic."

 

Harry frowned at the sheer derision lacing Tom's words.

 

"You're a muggleborn," he muttered. "Why does it seem... like you hate muggles?" Tom looked at him stoically. "What about your parents? They're muggles, so do you hate them, too-"

 

Harry didn't know what happened.

 

One moments he was speaking, and the next, words refused to leave his throat. A foreign will clamped down on them, and he tasted Dark magic like acid on his tongue, and his green eyes were wide - because he knew this was Tom's doing.

 

He even had a name to this.

 

Compulsion.

 

For the first time since their acquaintance, Tom was using compulsion on Harry. To  _ silence  _ him.

 

Panicked and betrayed green eyes stared into the brown so dark it was almost black.

 

"You know nothing about me and my parents, Potter," Riddle spat, and compulsion forced Harry to stay silent and still until he walked away and vanished from sight.

 

Harry didn't know what he would have done without those binds.

 

* * *

 

 

Lost and confused, Harry wend his way through the dungeons.

 

A familiar transparent figure swam into his line of sight. Harry stopped. The ghost of the Bloody Baron stopped as well. Its eyebrows rose, waiting. Harry was the first to accompany that bizarre first face-to-face encounter with words.

 

"Do you ever get tired of Slytherins?"

 

Well, perhaps it wasn't the best introductory phrase out there when speaking with a  _ Slytherin  _ ghost.

 

The Bloody Baron seemed to share Harry's opinion. Before he angered the ghost, the boy hastily continued.

 

"No offense, of course, but some of them are so exasperating, and annoying, and they don't know how to express themselves, and they use power just because they can, even when they shouldn't-" Harry broke off. He was breathing hard, and his heart was heavy, and the Bloody Baron was looking at him with too much understanding for a ghost that Harry wanted to unscrupulously use.

 

"Friendship with a Slytherin  _ can  _ be rather unsafe," the being commented mildly. The compassionate expression didn't really fit in with the silvery blood dotting the ghost's bizzarre Medieval robes, Harry thought. Nor with the hoarse voice that would be more appropriate on the deathbed. "You should know better, Harry Potter."

 

Harry's blood turned cold. "How do you know my name?"

 

"Heard it here and there in the passing. I know every single student who passes the halls of this school."

 

Harry sighed in envy. "Must be convenient. Uncle Reg would love having this amount of blackmail material on everyone."

 

"Regulus Black. I remember him. Not much different from the other Black students who had gone there before him - now, his brother was entirely different, of course."

 

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

 

"Can- can you tell me about them sometime? What they all were like, what they did, what others thought of them?"

 

The ghost considered it for a moment. There was a glint in his eyes, but Harry couldn't for the life of him recognise what it stood for.

 

"Well, being a ghost, I rarely have very pressing matters to attend to."

 

Harry took that as a yes. Suddenly, an idea popped into his mind.

 

“How do I call you?” He tilted his head and stared into the ghost’s eyes - widened and too alive for a being that had been dead for centuries. “I don’t believe that Baron is your actual name. Even without the ‘bloody’ part.”

 

A smile played on the dead man’s lips, taunting and mysterious, the sort of smile that Tom occasionally gave. Like the moon laughing at humans and their wants and needs.

 

“The dead need secrets as much as the living.”

 

“… Baron it is, then.”

 

The Slytherin ghost floated closer to Harry, so close he would be feeling body heat if it was a person, but there was no body. Only the breath of the grave and allure of the afterworld. The boy closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his shoulders at the chill.

 

"It is unwise to not be scared of me."

 

"I've heard that Hogwarts ghosts are harmless,” he pointed out, digging up the courage to stare at the being and meet an intense, considering gaze spearing him. “It's not like you can use a lot of magic, can't you? And even if you did, I'd go to Madam Pomphrey, and she'd heal me in a jiffy, and everything would be okay again. So, there is no real reason for me to feel scared."

 

The Bloody Baron surveyed him for several heartbeats. Harry pretended not to shuffle. He imagined he was Hermione Granger, just as relentless in telling the truth with no regard to how people perceived it, just as confident in the words flowing out of his mouth.

 

"You belong to the House of Ravenclaw," the apparition said finally. His voice was wondering, musing, contemplating.

 

"My tie  _ is  _ blue and bronze."

 

"Ravenclaws are not entirely useless," the ghost conceded. "A step better from Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, I suppose, albeit the difference is rather insignificant."

 

Harry stared at it, indignant.

 

"What's the matter with the Houses that aren't Slytherin? Could you be any ruder? You aren't even alive! Dead people shouldn't be so judgy. Maybe  _ that's  _ why they're dead!"

 

As soon as the words stumbled out of his mouth, the boy cringed. Wow, today he truly only got on other people's nerves, just like with Tom - he didn't understand the Slytherin's boy's anger, his honest resentment for the first time since they had known each other - but he understood the hurt and wanted to soothe it, to make it go away, except words evaded him just like they always did.

 

His shoulders hunched.

 

He truly was good for nothing.

 

The Bloody Baron only laughed.

 

"Such an amusing little thing, you are," the transparent man proclaimed. "It is not often that I encounter people with such a remarkable ability to make enemies."

 

"Some say I have a special charm," Harry snapped. The other's words drove the blades of steel beneath his ribcage. 

 

"Have I hit the nerve? Do not pay me any attention, child, I am merely a dead man who has had too much time to think on humanity and found this time to be enough to destroy any shreds of good opinion I had had of it before dying. I do not view you any differently from the other students inhabiting these halls."

 

"Are all ghosts as disenchanted as you?" Harry asked, suddenly curious. He knew the muggle world. Ghosts were all the rage there - in films, in books, in art, in made-up accounts by the muggles who wanted to believe, to touch the magical world, even if it was one of the most gruesome parts of it.

 

Magicals did not appreciate ghosts. They were an infection to get rid of in some houses, entities to be bound, like at Hogwarts, in others, and simply nuisances, remnants long gone of the people once held dear in yet others. No one took them seriously. After all, no ghost would ever substitute a living person. At worst they were the painful reminder of what you once had and what slipped through your grasp.

 

"This is for you to find out. Talk to some, be polite, and perhaps you may find out," the Bloody Baron replied. He was unfailingly half-amused in the conversation. Harry wondered just how many people dared speak to him. How many of them dared to talk back. "Still, you will hardly find a ghost like me."

 

"Hermione once told me you're the oldest ghost in all of Hogwarts."

 

"Only partly true. I do share this remarkable title with one other."

 

"Who?"

 

"You are a Ravenclaw, are you not? What would be the point of going to such a high-level magical establishment if you expect people to keep feeding you answers? Apply yourself and get work done."

 

"I thought the point of school was to get answers from teachers."

 

"In the Hogwarts of my youth teachers only showed the basics and steered in the right direction. The student was expected to flourish by themselves."

 

"And that's why we have a higher level of general education now, and not then."

 

It was fun bickering with the Bloody Baron, Harry realised with a start. Almost as fun as with Tom. Not that anyone could substitute Tom…

 

Would he really talk about it with a ghost?

 

"Say, Mr... er... Baron..."

 

Yep, seems like he would.

 

"Can you give any friendship advice?"

 

The Bloody Baron staggered on its floating feet.

 

"...You do realise that most of the student population runs away when I float by, while the rest simply prefers to let me be?"

 

"Well, yeah, I just thought... never mind!" Harry finally blurted out and made to abandon the corridor and the strange ghost and the strange encounter altogether...

 

A burst of magic stopped him.

 

Harry whipped around, eyes wide.

 

Impossible. Not from a ghost. A ghost that didn’t even have a wand.

 

"I never said I would not help you,” the Bloody Baron drawled. Its eyes - a darker grey that could have been brown or black in life - danced with mirth at Harry’s stumped face. “ I have observed quite a share of young people drama in my centuries of living. What is the reason for your falling out?"

 

Harry hesitated, worrying his lower lip, before shrugging. "The thing is that I don't know. It'd be easier to fix if I did. But I don't. So... We were talking about families. I... I'm not happy with the way my family is. I told him so. He got angry. Why would he do so?"

 

"I know who you are, Harry Potter. I knew your parents when they walked these halls - it was rather fascinating to observe how they set up their traps and wait for others to fall for them." The ghost's lips quirked up. Harry sucked in a breath. "I do not understand what your issues are, and I know not the way that the time has changed them as it inevitably changes us all... but I recognise your parents as good, noble souls. They are not the worst parents there could be. Your friend seems to see this and perhaps it is something he envies, something he believes that you don't appreciate enough."

 

"I... don't know much about his family," Harry reluctantly admitted. "He doesn't talk about them, never."

 

"He may have been abused," the Bloody Baron tossed in offhandedly, like he met abused children every day. “Or an orphan.”

 

"No," was torn from Harry's lips immediately.

 

Tom, his classmate Tom... he couldn't be that. He was confident, and strong, and had that beautiful, beautiful aura, and he was intelligent… 

 

Intelligence didn't protect from abuse, of course. Or from having no parents.

 

But even if Tom wasn't either... Harry realised he said a lot of things the other boy found offensive occasionally. Like the muggleborn issue - sometimes Tom felt gleeful when muggleborns were brought down in a verbal smackdown - which Harry couldn't understand, because Tom was one as well, wasn't he? Unless his suspicion that Tom was some pureblood in disguise were true? - but other times he hated it, and his eyes burnt, and words of apology scrambled to get out of Harry’s mouth, even if someone else uttered the insult.

 

"I think I should say sorry," he said out loud. He still didn't know what he would be apologising for, but the thought of being angry with Tom drained him too much.

 

"This is a nice plan for a person of your generation." The Bloody Baron nodded in approval. “Most usually arrive at this conclusion after days spent sulking.”

 

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and tapped his foot at the ghost’s mocking. Now he knew why it never spoke and no one spoke to it - only insults deluged out of its lips. But there was one question he  _ had  _ to ask...

 

"How did you use magic?"

 

Controlled magic, wandless magic that wizards and witches used.

 

The Bloody Baron laughed.

 

"You are naive if you think I will spill my secrets in response to your questions. Consider it a trinket for amusing me: Hogwarts ghosts are bound, but that does not make us harmless."

 

It floated away.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is reading my other fics, please tell me whether you'd like me to update Design Your Universe or Tearing the Veil from Grace this Sunday/Monday!


	11. Visions of an Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big hugs to everyone who reviewed this story <3 Enjoy the chapter!

 

"Y’know, you never told me how that study session went," Ron asked him quietly. "The one with Granger, Riddle guy, and your Ravenclaw minions."

 

The wind prowling outside prevented them from arranging another picnic, and since neither boy had mastered any warming charms yet, they contented themselves with staying in the kitchen, with house elves roaming about and a pile of snacks laid out daintily on a silver plate. Upon entering, Ron’s face had  _ glowed _ . As if he wanted to take the entire kitchen home with him. Mrs Weasley, of course, wouldn’t appreciate the competition.

 

Harry put aside his mug of warm milk and smiled.

 

Ron's presence always relaxed him. Harry enjoyed spending time with the redhead; it reminded him of those quiet evenings at home by the fireplace, with a book in his lap and a strong wind bending the yellow tree tops outside. A strange feeling, considering that Ron himself was never a calm person, nor did he love to read.

 

The influence of his magic?

 

It blazed with warmth, just like his personality, and Harry yearned to get close to it, as if leaning into a hug.

 

He lamented getting into different houses. Otherwise, he was pretty sure they would have spent most of their time together, playing chess - Ron would win, of course - or exploding snap, half-arsing their homework, whinging about Binns and Snape, hanging around the common room with Hermione, and Dean, and Seamus, and Parvati, and Lavender...

 

Perhaps, had he been a Gryffindor, Tom Riddle would have never deigned to be his friend. 

 

He ignored the pang in his heart.

 

Harry caught Ron staring and realised that he had been lost in thought. When he flushed, Ron shook his head. A smile lit up his face, a calm glow.

 

Yet another trait Harry appreciated. Rom didn't judge like many others would. Different from Tom, Harry supposed, since while the Slytherin rarely made disparaging remarks openly, Harry could see scorn in his eyes in reaction to pretty much everything, except for the subjects that excited  or interested him. Sometimes not even then. A scowling ball of spite, Tom was.

 

A pang, again. Harry resolved to clear the air between him and the other boy just so he could stop having them.

 

"It went pretty good," he finally told Ron. "I mean, most of the people were just us, ‘Claws - and I seriously dare you to call Lisa and Morag my minions in front of them - with the exception of Hermione, Tom, and Lilian- Lilian Moon, that Hufflepuff-"

 

"Yeah, I remember her," Ron interrupted. "That crazy hair colour girl? She doesn't live far from our place."

 

"She's nice. Anyway, we all gathered in the library, and Su cast the Silencing Charm-"

 

"She did?" Ron cut in again. "Blimey! They're not even in this year's programme!"

 

"Well, you do know there are people who study in advance," Harry pointed out with another sip of his drink.

 

Ron's eyes widened in horror. 

 

_ Only spiders terrify him more. _

 

"Mate, I’m trying too hard to pretend those nutters don’t exist! Outside of Percy, that is, but the guy was born like this, and we shouldn’t ‘speak badly of ill people’. Or so mum says, anyway."

 

"Just deal with it and stop bothering other people with your un-love of books." Harry stuck out his tongue. " _ So _ , she did this, and Madame Pince didn't hear us speaking too loudly and didn't care to come and label us as some sort of book-threatening miscreants like she did with that study group Hannah Abbott organised. Then, Quirrell actually gave us a list of tricky questions, some of which  _ might  _ pop up in the exam, and we went over each of them in detail. And Hermione prepared a list of literature based on those questions for all of us."

 

"I hear you speak ‘bout all this work and my stomach hurts," Ron said and shook his head sadly. To get rid of this hurt, he grabbed the biggest custard pastry on the plate and stuck it into his mouth, chewing and humming in pleasure.

 

"What's making your stomach hurt is those cakes you insist on eating," Harry deadpanned before shrugging, biting a piece of that bad-for-your-health but delicious treat, and grinning. "Anyway! Since ghosts take up most of our first-term curriculum, I'm pretty sure that I'll get at least an E now!"

 

"An E," Ron muttered. His nose crinkled. "The height of my ambition is an A. I swear, if I get an E, mum is gonna make chocolate pancakes for the entire summer. And I’ll hoard them and tell Fred and George to sod off when they try to eat them, because they are gits who spelt my hair  _ blonde  _ for all the bloody summer."

 

"That's as good a motivation as any," Harry said and nodded wisely. He stifled a snicker. 

 

_ I wonder what would happen if I made Ron and Malfoy change clothes and hairstyles for a day? _

 

"You said Granger was there?" Ron suddenly asked. Harry, wondering what brought this on, only blinked.

 

"Yeah. She's the one who helped me organise the whole thing. Although by the end of it all it seemed like  _ I  _ was the one doing the helping."

 

"Yeah, she's overbearing. As in, if I were her brother, I'd have hanged myself when in diapers." Ron shuddered and looked at yet another pastry - those things were so small, he devoured them like sunflower seeds - in horror, seeking sympathy. "She has this habit of always correcting my pronunciation when it comes to spells, and yapping on about my handwriting-"

 

"It does need some work, Ron."

 

"That's not the point! No one has the right to tell me when I'm making a mistake I don't even bloody care about!"

 

Harry bit his lip. "You quarrelled with her, didn't you?"

 

Ron stared at him in surprise.

 

"Yeah, we did. Well, kinda. She went on ahead to be as intolerable as possible, and I... Well, maybe, just maybe, I yelled at her a little."

 

"Padma told me she heard from Parvati that they found her crying in the lavatory."

 

Guilt clouded Ron's freckled face.

 

"Not my fault she's so emotional,” he mumbled into custard cream.

 

"She only wanted to help you." Harry sighed and decided that he definitely sucked in the role of a comforting or wise figure. "She's so bossy mostly because she doesn't really have a close friend, I think. And she can't get a close friend if she's so bossy all the time. This anger thing you do won't work here; you insulted her personally when you should have just pointed out that you didn't need her help. Next time, you use logic and rationalise. I can't believe I have to tell  _ you  _ this."

 

The only person Harry knew who could use logic as well as Ron was Tom, and even then Harry wasn’t entirely sure. Cunning and learning intelligence didn’t equal strategic thinking. Tom could have all the traits, of course.

 

"Fine," Ron relented and ducked his head. "If you really want me to, I’ll play nice with her."

 

As Harry knew he would, because underneath all the grumbling, and mumbling, and fumbling around, Ron was one of the kindest people he had ever known.

 

Sometimes, he wished Tom could be like that.

 

* * *

 

Tom didn’t always understand his bursts of anger. They came and went, like the tide, but unlike the tide, completely unpredictable.

 

Harry’s betrayed green eyes haunted him as he went through the next few days talking to Greengrass or his pet Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs - albeit he noticed that Li and Granger both preferred to spend time with Harry rather than him now, even though he still had Turpin, McDougal, Goldstein, Cornfoot, and Entwhistle.

 

Tom had no idea why he had snapped. Why he had stooped to compulsion of all reactions. Suddenly, that idea, almost like a natural instinct, had beckoned him, and he had followed it. Like a twisted form of a mother’s embrace, it brought him comfort. In the orphanage, when other children teased him, he would either order them to simply leave, if in a good mood, or demand that they performed hazardous and humiliating tasks such as jumping from the window of the second floor, or peeing themselves, or ripping apart their most precious possessions. He read a lot of books, even fiction - of the classical kind, of course - and occasionally he would derive inspiration from them.

 

Yet he found that his own mind contrived the most twisted, harmful of punishments better than any book.

 

_ But Harry isn’t a bully. He isn’t even an enemy, _ Tom reminded himself.  _ Potter is just a fool who trusts people too easily. _

 

And he had hurt Tom.

 

Tom hated the idea of anyone learning just how filthy his heritage was. To bury that most shameful of secrets he could bury a body. Of course, no need to go that far with Harry - the idea of those green eyes closing forever didn’t stick well with Tom, unsettled him, for some reason, probably because of the backlash he would suffer - but he could try some scare tactics.

 

Ah- but he didn’t  _ want  _ to scare him away-

 

Tom despised emotions. 

 

Emotions bubbled in his stomach right now. Even as he nodded in response to Greengrass, even as wrote an essay for Snape, who acted extra strict with him, even as he sat in a remote armchair in the common room and tried to focus on extra Charms Club work-

 

His hand twitched when someone mentioned the Potter family. When he glimpsed Ravenclaw uniforms, he couldn’t help but sneak a glance. Then, he would catch himself, rein his reactions in, scowl, brood, and curse Potter for making him feel almost  _ guilty  _ for his actions. 

 

He despised how emotions weakened him, how he could think about nothing but Potter, and his mouth uselessly opening with no sound falling, and his hurt gaze-

 

Tom convinced himself he needed Harry because of the information he provided. The idea that affection hid behind his actions... repulsed him.

 

It reminded him too much of those fickle friendships other children forged. Friendships that fell apart the moment Tom attacked one of the 'friends' and others ran. Real, true comrades existed only in books. Rather than having a fake, Tom would rather have no friend at all.

 

It wouldn’t be beneficial to lose Harry’s favour, Tom reasoned. Especially now when such a good opportunity to reap those benefits loomed in the near future, on Samhain, it would be foolish to let it go just because of hurt feelings. Who in the world gave a damn about people’s emotions, anyway? Not Tom, that’s for certain.

 

But he couldn’t just go and beg Harry for forgiveness. His whole being rebelled against the idea.

 

Perhaps he could go wherever Potter spent his time when without Tom, and try to pretend he was hurt by someone and needed help? Than, Potter would forgive him all on his own, and Tom would hardly even need to say a word. Sure, it galled him to show such weakness, even if it was a pretence, but Harry wouldn’t go around telling such things. Tom could instill another lesson in compulsion if he ever did.

 

And in  _ that  _ case not-guilt wouldn’t scratch his stomach at all.

 

Tom resolved to go for a walk and make a decision on the spot.

 

* * *

 

His carefully crafted plans fell apart, useless, when they encountered each other on the crowded staircase leading down into the dungeons, with multitudes of students rushing to the remedial Potions lessons, or to their dorms, or simply exploring and creating more trouble for Filch and his beloved cat. Tom mulled over the ways to lead Harry away from the main crowd, because he surely wasn’t going to mock-cry for help where anyone but the Ravenclaw could see, but Harry wrenched the decision away from him.

 

The boy marched directly up to him and whispered, "I’m sorry for whatever I said, but you had no right to do what you did either. So, I don’t mind if we’re still friends so long as I get to slap you on the head when we’re alone." Harry’s face darkened. "And you never dare even attempt that again."

 

The happiness bloomed so suddenly and violently that Tom couldn’t stifle a small smile.

 

Hastily, he made up for the joyful emotion by his words.

 

“If this was you begging for me to befriend you, try again. More convincing arguments, perhaps.”

 

Harry mock-frowned, his green eyes sparkling, greener than the foliage of the Forbidden Forest under the sunrays bursting through the ornate windows. His finger - Tom noted with disapproval the bitten fingernail - tapped his chin.

 

“Hmm... And here I thought helping you out on Samhain was a good enough argument, since you seemed to want to spend it with me, taking part in a pureblood ritual…” He shrugged and started walking away. “Well, if you don’t want to, it’s not like I can push it on you, right?”

 

“Potter,” Tom warned in a deadly voice. “If you dare walk away from me right now, I won’t even leave your corpse intact for your family.”

 

“I’ll be a ghost and haunt you.”

 

“I’ll exorcise you.”

 

Harry’s eyes flashed, which puzzled Tom. The Ravenclaw’s face shone as if Tom gave him the key to one of the major secrets of the universe, eyes scintillating, skin whiter than usual. Before Tom interrogated him, the boy spoke.

 

“You’d be torn apart by the pro-ghost anti-exorcism movement if you did - they believe it’s rather inhumane to take away ghosts’ choice to live, it seems.”

 

Tom hadn’t thought wizards could sink any lower into absurdity in his eyes, but they just did.

 

“There is  _ that  _ in the magical world. Fascinating.”

 

Tom looked around and realised that the number of people on the stairs had dwindled considerably. Still too many for private conversations, though. Harry understood Tom’s intentions at a glance.

 

«So, how about going somewhere quiet and hashing out the details of your participation?»

 

* * *

 

Hogwarts corridors were a gathering of spectres. They crept along the hallways, skulked in the shadows of unused classrooms, hovered over the shoulders of a harried Ravenclaw, curiously sneaked about the offices and classrooms...

 

And only Harry saw them.

 

They flashed with colours, unlike ghosts like Ravenclaw’s Grey Lady or Slytherin's Bloody Baron, or even Gryffindor's and Hufflepuff's ghosts Harry wasn't personally acquainted with, whose features were etched in infinite hues of grey. Lined-up and wandering the halls, the spectres rfestooned the castle like living garlands, so at odds with the solemn faces of the students who summoned the memories of those spirits back to life, if only for a moment.

_ I wonder if death is really as solemn as people make it out to be. Spirits definitely look cheerier than most people from Uncle Reg’s coterie. _

 

Then again, these were not people. Not even ghosts. They were  _ magic _ , and that was why he saw them.

 

Harry asked himself whether each of the invisible ghosts that stayed invisible even to most other Hogwarts ghosts was wanted. Whether each had been invited, summoned. Was it possible for a spectre to visit on its own free will on Samhain? Without a ritual?

 

"You act very strange today," Ron muttered to him when Harry stopped to stare at a spectre of bright green mischievously playing with Lisa Turpin's hair. He almost imagined a tiny grin on her face, as if she felt the touch.

 

But of course, those spirits had less impact on the physical world than ghosts, much less a poltergeist. Unless the summoner granted them power with their own blood and magic, of course, they even passed through other ghosts.

 

He forced a smile. "Samhain. Everything is supposed to be strange."

 

“Dunno,” Ron muttered and frowned, scrutnising Harry’s face, his gaze less intent than Tom’s. "I don’t put much stock in this ancient rubbish, you know that, mate. Do you actually still follow all those traditions?"

 

Harry thought carefully about his reply.

 

Ron never found out that Harry actually performed pureblood rituals other than the Light ones occasionally. He planned to keep it that way. Ron’s family renounced traditional pureblood teachings, fully embracing muggle holidays and scepticism of rituals. Still, they accepted Light customs. Their tolerance didn’t spread to those of a Darker leaning. Uncle Reg would be horribly betrayed if Harry blabbered it out to all of the school, and- and he supposed he didn't need to betray Snape yet another time.

 

"Not the stronger rituals, no. Especially right now. I mean- when I was a kid, mum and dad both insisted that we do at least something for each old holiday. Samhain, Yule, Beltane... We actually tried something different each year. I don't remember us repeating a ritual in my life. But that was then, and now's now." He shrugged. "Obviously, it's going to be quite different here at Hogwarts. I've chosen an easy little something that I can do without anyone's help. Well, probably. Most likely.” Grinning, he added, “Anyway, I'm sure the Headmaster will fix it if I end up setting the castle on fire."

 

Ron snickered and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Now, that's a sight I don't wanna miss! You should leave the fire stuff to Seamus, though. I'll eat a galleon if this guy doesn't end up blowing up the Seventh floor or something before we graduate." His demeanour changed. "But you can probably go home for Samhain, anyway, spend it with your parents instead of here. I've heard of people doing this."

 

"Only in special circumstances, Ron," Harry corrected mildly. "The only people I know who are portkeying home for the night are Malfoy-" Ron grimaced. "-and a girl from my House, Lisa Turpin. The one with short light brown hair, who looks a bit like a boy. She's standing right over there. Oh, and there's a third one - a girl from Slytherin, you probably wouldn't know her, it's Bulstrode. Millicent Bulstrode."

 

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. "Never heard of 'em. Or I did and didn't care. You know that Slytherins aren't my thing."

 

Harry racked his brain for any scrap of information. "One of her relatives was arrested recently. Nasty business, they even sent him to Azkaban." He frowned. "I don't really remember the full reason for it. The Prophet kind of obscured it, you know - like they do everything that's of value."

 

As always, a twinge of guilt pierced through him. Harry knew personally some of the people who did such obscuring, and while he loved his self-professed mentor dearly, Uncle Regulus sometimes lacked a moral compass.

 

"It's kinda sad that the only alternative to that is Quibbler."

 

"Mum always used to harp that it's disgustingly backwards for us to have only the Daily Prophet cover our political and social life with no other alternative source. Except for Quibbler, as you've said - and isn't it an independent newspaper? - and sometimes Witch or Wizard Weekly. She's apparently not satisfied that most of our newspapers are scientific journals about potions, transfiguration, charms, and the like."

 

"Some of your Mum's opinions, they say, are really cool. As in, so radical they make Malfoy“s slimebbucket of dad want to stick his wand down her throat to shut her up - hey, don't look at me like that, it's what Ginny said! I've heard Dad say that your Mum would be great at politics - if she weren't so great at her job, of course."

 

"Well, if she did, I doubt that she would have let me be such good friends with Uncle Reg, and that won't do at all."

 

Because, for all his faults, Regulus Black was the only person who truly wanted to have Harry in his life.

 

Even if he was the one who repressed the right of people as brilliant as Tom to shine, and allowed werewolves to die of hunger, and treated Veelas as sex slaves.

 

That's why, whenever people told Harry how selfless he was, he would smile.

 

Harry watched the specters play about and wondered if any of them died because of the Ministry's incompetence cultivated by his Uncle.

 

* * *

 

The Halloween Feast ended, and Harry noticed students tucking a stray apple, or a slice of meatloaf, or a piece of a pumpkin and walnut cake wrapped in a festive-coloured serviette away into their schoolbags. He followed their example, opting for an orange, and motioned at Tom to do the same, controlling the Slytherin with his stare across the Great Hall. The other boy set aside a bar of chocolate.

 

Despite enjoying the skeletons playing violins and the piano, and the dancing bats, and the Weasley twins rallying the students into singing the school hymn and several traditional wizarding ballads sung on Samhain, ones known to every child raised in Magical Britain, Harry couldn't shake off fear and anticipation. He shared them with the rest of the magical-raised first years, eating with trembling utensils, who prepared to perform rituals by themselves for the first time in their lives. No parents' hand to guide them. This time, it would be them, and the burning offering, and the chant falling from their lips, and the magic drifting around them and extending its reach beyond the veil separating the living from the dead.

 

Even greater responsibility burdened Harry, who not only had to somehow get through the night himself, but also to explain and teach everything to Tom. Hopefully without killing or maiming the boy.

 

Tom would butcher him if he found out just how little Harry knew of the ritual he was going to perform.

 

Or they would accidentally summon a demon from those muggle tales, and he would happily do this in Tom's stead.

 

Should he have chosen a more benevolent night to introduce the bloke to the whole magical holidays business? Probably.

 

They agreed to meet in the dungeons, hopefully somewhere with fewer people thronging about, a task only made harder by the fact that on Samhain everyone suddenly wanted a piece of privacy, and all the places thought to be empty before now abounded in students pulling all-nighters while singing the memories of their deceased dear ones into being, or older teenagers burning Samhain sacrifices to venerate dead ancestors and tap into their powers, or those using the night for a more sinister purpose. Of course, those belonging to the last category had to hide themselves most carefully; Dumbledore's tolerance didn't touch the rituals he found too Dark.

 

Harry found Tom’s statuesque form near a tarnished armour by an alcove. The boy wore a scowl and casual robes that looked a little bit worn down. Something Ron would wear. Something that didn't fit at all with Tom's magnificent mantle of royal purple aura, or the imperious attitude he sometimes adopted.

 

"Hey!" Harry greeted the Slytherin as soon as he came close enough. Tom's frown deepened. "How did you manage to come here earlier than me?"

 

"By being faster, obviously. And having longer legs. You're so short it's a wonder Flitwick isn't taller."

 

"It's temporary. Runs in the family. Both Dad and Mum were really, awfully short when they were my age, but have you seen them now? Someday I'll hit puberty like they did."

 

"I wouldn't count on it. I say you should look up some charms to be taller - there are those that alter your appearance, right?"

 

Harry paused to think about it.

 

"Hm... Yeah, there are. Obviously. There is nothing you can't do with magic. The problem is that while it's easy to alter your appearance  _ temporarily  _ using a potion or change your looks by casting an illusion - glamours, they are called - it's next to impossible to do the same permanently. The only way is to perform a ritual, but such rituals, ones that change someone's physical appearance, usually require the user to cast strong Light magic and a strong sacrifice.

 

"Say, you're real plump or sort of ugly, and you want to be as pretty as a veela and super thin, and you choose to achieve this by using a ritual. You'll find that all of the rituals available to you will require that you give up your taste buds, or your appetite, or your eyesight, or your voice, or your ability to feel touch, and the like. Just think about it - if it really were that easy, there wouldn't be any imperfect magical being at all around."

 

"Still, I find it hard to believe that no one has ever tried."

 

"Of course they did." Harry waved a hand. They started walking. Harry guided Tom subconsciously, to a place he knew not but felt was right. Where the number of the spectres dwindled, a lot less people stuck around. Spirits seemed rather sociable for former dead people. "There are really lots and lots of rumours. Actual facts, too. They even say that the Malfoys are all so freakishly pretty because one of their ancestors was so vain he sacrificed all his senses for the beauty of his descendants." He paused. "I think it's bollocks. They probably just mated with a veela at some point and contrived this silly story to hush the whole thing up. Britain has never looked favourably on interracial matings."

 

"Malfoy? Pretty?" Tom made a disgusted face. "I would not call him anything other than somewhat passable."

 

Harry burst out laughing.

 

"I really want to see you call him that to his face!" Calming down, he added, "But better not, because his Daddy's definitely going to hear that one, and they'll make your life at Hogwarts hell."

 

"I shall go to Dumbledore if need arises. He is rumoured to be a powerful man, right?"

 

Harry hummed. "Yeah. Defeater of Grindelwald, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, etcetera, etcetera. Even Uncle Reg is sort of wary of the man - not that he'd ever admit it, of course. That's the thing with you Slytherins," he said slyly, glancing at Tom out of the corner of his eye. "Even when you know perfectly well just how strong your enemy is, you don't accept that you are weaker."

 

Tom scowled, and Harry laughed again. Sometimes it astounded him that he couldn't draw a single smile out of his reticent friend for days, but scowls rained on him like freebies at the Leaky Cauldron.

 

"Why would I pander to someone's ego? Furthermore, there is always a possibility that even if you are weaker currently, you will be able to gain power later. As you have said, even though it costs a sacrifice, you can do  _ anything  _ with magic."

 

Tom underlined the word 'anything' and Harry shuddered. For no reson at all. He blamed the draft in the halls.

 

Tom's eyes gleamed and promised power, and the air around them thrummed with his magic, and Harry almost suffocated under the weight of it. Tom's mantle of magic astounded him with its force, but a tiny part of Harry wondered whether the boy felt stifled carrying that burden.

 

They arrived at a suitable destination. An abandoned little room on the third floor. The air, empty without the ghostly colours.

 

* * *

 

They set up their instruments and tools quietly - two identical chalices for burning the offerings, a small gauzy bag of herbs, their scavenged fruit, two needles engraved with runes for pricking their fingers. To avoid the dust on the floor - probably a former office of a teacher, because there were no desks, no chairs - Tom transfigured a mouse corpse into a small cloth of black, and settled the tools on it.

 

Tom sensed magic in the air, felt its thrumming beat against his skin like phantom touches, tasted a storm on his tongue.

 

"I didn’t know you were that advanced," Harry complimented the Slytherin on his Transfiguration. Having finished setting up the whole workshop, he relaxed into sitting Indian-style in front of the cloth and the necessities for the ritual. The moon and the stars illuminated the room. Cobwebs and shadows, tangled, decorated the corners and the walls in whimsical patterns.

 

"I prefer to work ahead. You should know this better than anyone, with how many times I have bested you at everything."

 

"Hey! You’ve just bested me in Transfiguration. And Potions - but that’s ‘cause Snape. And, maybe, just maybe, in Astronomy - but we can’t know for sure, not until Professor Sinistra gives us the scores. And History of Magic - but that’s cause Binns sucks, and you and Hermione are pretty much the only people who can listen to him drone on-"

 

"I repeat: I best you at everything."

 

"Herbology!" Harry exclaimed smugly, enjoying the irritated expression overshadowing Tom’s face. "I know you hate it. I also know you hate it that Neville is so damn brilliant at it. Also, I’m damn good at Charms and you know it, you jealous git. And we’re not that far apart in DADA."

 

"Only because you had training from your parents."

 

Harry’s voice cooled. "Wrong. Everyone assumes so, but it’s not true at all. My parents have never really taught me duelling, or Defence spells, or whatever. They don’t have  _ time  _ for it. When you’re busy saving the world, spending time with family seems too small a goal. "

 

After that, Harry refused to speak. He silently unwrapped the orange and the chocolate and placed each of them into separate chalices. Tom observed his movements intently. Caressed the skin hugging the finger bones with his eyes, scrutinised the bitten nails, the bloodless knuckles.

 

This was the first time that Hogwarts felt truly  _ magical  _ to Tom, the it was supposed to be.

 

The flames of the torches on the wall flickered away. The cobwebs, pebbles, and mice corpses sunk into darkness.

 

"Lumos!" Tom cast quietly, eyeing Harry's work hungrily. The Ravenclaw carefully settled herbs into the chalices, evening the layers of them out, before placing orange peel and quarters into one of them. A muttered spell fell from his lips.

 

Tom repeated the process, only this time putting his chocolate in. Waited patiently for further instructions.

 

Harry sat back and sighed.

 

"We have to wait a few minutes for the spell to settle," he explained. Tom’s jaw tightened.  _ Soon _ . "I want to remind you, don't freak out when you are pulled into the memory and drown in the feelings of your-"

 

"I understood perfectly the purpose of this ritual," Tom snapped. He looked away from the chalices, wherein the fruit, the chocolate, and the herbs quickly decayed into a single mass, and into Harry's face illuminated by the tip of Tom's wand. His emerald green eyes were the eyes of a witch's cat from an illustration to a fairy tale. "It allows the caster to view a most important memory of their closest deceased ancestor."

 

Harry gave him an encouraging smile. It didn't hide the nervous tugging on his sleeves, the way his fingers shook before he tightened them around his wand.

 

"Yeah. That's it. It's perhaps not the most important memory, but one that left the most emotional impact. I have to warn you, though, that it won't necessarily be a positive memory. It could be the death of a loved one, or loss of estate, or war-"

 

"I understand, Potter."

 

Blessedly, Harry shut up.

 

Tom refused to show how much he yearned to find out anything, anything at all connected to either of his parents. His breath hitched.

 

Did they have an explanation for why they had died so pathetically and left him in an orphanage?

 

This question echoed in his mind. Tom clenched his teeth and tried to drown it out, and… failed.

 

"I think it's probably time," Harry said, his voice suddenly a whisper. No word could pass Tom's lips.

 

They both clutched the chalices filled with rotten matter on the bottoms, but neither smelt rot. Tom pricked his finger with a needle and watched, enchanted, as a drop of blood slid down the soft pad and dropped into the brownish mass.

 

It lit up.

 

The flame roared. Green. The green of the Killing Curse Snape's little brown book had showed. The green of Harry's eyes.

 

They both chanted. Not Latin, something else. Irish Gaelic? Scottish? Tom had never been interested-

 

Before the last syllable of the incantation dropped from his lips, his eyes rolled in the back of his head.

 

Tom fell.

 

* * *

 

_ She thought he was an angel. _

 

Tom's heartbeat stopped when he looked into a face that copied his own. Dark brown hair, chiselled features, eyes so dark they were almost black, a spellbinding abyss forcing people to look, and look, and look- 

 

The same cruel gleam.

 

_ The angel stretched his hand and helped her rise. His lips moved. _

 

Tom didn't hear the words but recognised the mocking curl of lip. He doubted he was telling her a compliment.

 

_ The words hurt. The angel told her she was worthless. But her brother told her that, and her father, and everyone she met. She couldn't cry at facts. _

 

Jagged edges of pain dug into his core, and Tom knew it was her pain. His mother's. A marriage of pain, fear, self-disgust, despise, and-

 

Desire. Deranged desire that hurt more than the shards of pain. desire that took Tom's breath away, and it felt  _ wrong _ , more wrong than friendship or revenge alike to look at his- his-  _ father  _ that way and feel those emotions. To trace his cheekbones and soft skin, to look at his lips and see them as soft.

 

He felt sick.

 

He felt elated, the part of him that was his mother's memory. Elated at simply seeing the man who was one patch of sunlight in a world filled with abuse hurled at her by her brother-

 

_ One day, the angel would be hers. _

 

Tom's world coloured with craving. It eclipsed anything he had ever felt before, this obsessive love, this one wish that she would make true.

 

_ She promised him forever in her rough voice, and he cringed, and he laughed - as derisively as her brother did, and once he was hers, she would never allow him to make that sound again - but she already had the potion, and forever was just a sip away. _

 

There was madness, and then there was darkness again, and then Tom woke up.

 

The chalice was completely empty, fire extinguished. Harry twitched and started waking up, slowly, like an inferius rising from a grave.

 

"Tom?" he mumbled and rubbed his eyes. The Slytherin ignored him. He stared at the chalice but looked through it; his mind's eye turned the memory over and over, prodding and analysing it from all angles except for the emotional one.

 

"It should have lasted longer," Harry told him, his voice hoarse. "We probably did something wrong. Maybe we should have put in more herbs- or maybe we made a pronunciation mistake-"

 

"It matters not," Tom interrupted. He jumped to his feet, almost hurting himself in the process, as if his limbs had forgotten how to cooperate.

 

He remembered the clumsiness he experienced in his mother's body, how awkward her movements had been, and realised that her hurt had been physical as well as mental. Brother. Father. Those people had done that to her. His uncle and his grandfather.

 

_ Are they still alive? _

 

"It is getting far too early," he said sharply. Outside the window dawn was breaking. "We should return to the common room."

 

Tom threw one last look at Harry, noticing the Ravenclaw's grateful expression. Neither of them wanted to talk.

 

Hurrying down the halls to his dorms, Tom repressed a mad laugh. At least, he would prefer laughter, craze, and hate to the tears that would choke him otherwise.

 

Of course there was no adequate explanation. His mother had just been weak. Always.

 

And of course, his birth was so inconsequential it paled in comparison to the memory of a man who mocked and derided her.

 

* * *

 

 

No tears accompanied his waking up. Tom heaved a sigh at that. His mother was too pathetic, too inconsequential to cry just because he had seen a memory. He clenched his hands into fists and swore  _ he  _ would never make another person his whole world.

 

No morning commotion greeted his ears when he stood up. His other Slytherin classmates either snored or were absent. He glanced around the room.

 

Zabini's curtains were open, his bed neatly made, and his shoe collection peeked out from underneath the bed, but the boy himself was nowhere to be found. Nott's foot hung from the edge of his bed and tempted Tom to hex it, if only because Nott, along with Malfoy and Davis, were the most vocal about his blood status. They also commented on his poverty. Tom smirked and cast a nasty itching hex on the boy. Its power would grow every time Nott scratched his skin, and it wasn't distinguishable from an average mosquito bite.

 

Tom's eyes passed over Crabbe and Goyle - they both were too keen on food and catching up with studies, which proved to be an impossible task for the brain-dead idiots, to bother him most of the time - and stopped on Malfoy, who had returned already and dropped asleep without even unpacking the box he had carried from home.

 

Anger bloomed in him again. Tom knew one way to soothe it.

 

It was a pity he still was a long way away from using compulsion on sleeping people or manipulation seeds - Snape’s little book mentioned both of them and stressed that only Masters achieved that level - and Malfoy was too high up in the hierarchy - for now - to destroy him openly, but Tom could satisfy himself with a prank.

 

Or justified revenge for all the slurs, as he preferred to call it.

 

He tiptoed to Malfoy's bed, drew the curtains open, raised his wand-

 

"This is very brave of you, Riddle," a voice drawled behind him.

 

Tom whirled around, several possible incantations drifting in his mind, and his compulsion ability rearing its head, glad for the possible exercise.

 

Zabini pulled out his own wand. He smirked. His brown ochre eyes gleamed knowingly at Tom.

 

"Just your luck that Malfoy and I are not such good friends that I would stand up on his behalf."

 

"I was led to believe that Slytherin is about loyalty."

 

"It is," Zabini told him and shrugged. He was already immaculately dressed, the earliest riser of them all, and today he wore deep purple shoes with black stripes. "But see, Malfoy's father and my mother belong to different factions in the Wizengamot, so I don't mind if you show him that his riches do not make him Morgana's gift to all of us."

 

Irritation stabbed Tom at yet another proof of how hard it was for a muggleborn to participate in politics - there were too many unwritten rules, and codes, and differences between the sides that were too slight to notice.

 

"You two seem very friendly."

 

"Well, it would be un-Slytherin of me to alienate him openly." Zabini strutted to the mirror by his bed and fixed a bowtie he had tied in a casual manner. "Besides, I've never said I  _ hate  _ him. Believe me, the people I hate are aware of the fact. And Malfoy can actually put forward good ideas once in awhile or come up with a clever trick, even if he is dumb and annoying the rest of the time. We can be friendly, but we are not friends. Not like Theo and Daphne, or Malfoy and Parkinson, or Crabbe and Goyle."

 

"Do you have any friends? The Nott-Greengrass type of friend."

 

Zabini shot him an indecipherable expression.

 

"I used to. I hear that you are getting much friendlier than me with at least one of them." The dark-haired boy smiled wistfully. "Harry Potter. We used to spend a lot of time together when we were children. Him, Padma, and I."

 

Tom jolted. He had never considered that Harry must have had friends before meeting Tom. 

 

"You don’t seem particularly close nowadays," he remarked off-handedly. Absorbed Zabini's reaction. Perhaps his information would help Tom control Harry better. "I cannot remember a single time I saw you together."

 

"Well, one of the reasons may be the presence of a certain mudblood that never leaves him," Zabini drawled. Tom fought the urge to squeeze that bowtie so tight that air left his lungs. "Honestly, I am seeing you two so much the sight makes me sick already. Stop it." He smirked and turned away from the mirror to face Tom. "But don't worry, Harry and I will have time to reestablish ourselves as friends, because  _ you  _ are going to be very, very busy."

 

Tom raised an eyebrow.

 

"I already am busy. Unlike some people, I actually study."

 

"See, you will be doing more of that now. I was at Professor Snape's office, and he told me to pass you a message." Zabini walked closer. They were the same height, Tom noticed. "He wants to test you on your control of Dark Magic. If you pass-”

 

"There is no 'if' in this," Tom interrupted with a nasty smile. 

 

Finally, a scrap of happiness.

 

There was nothing easier than controlling Dark Magic. He would make Zabini swallow his doubt, and end up on top, where he should be. And he would forget the vision the ritual had showed him, of two people who were far too weak to ever deserve him, and he would forget the part of him that craved more.

 


	12. That Bitter Taste of Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! If you're still reading, then you are absolutely amazing, wonderful, gorgeous, and asdfghjk I just adore you. Seriously. I've been hating my writing recently, and there is a part of this chapter where you can probably feel how much it pained me to write it, lol. But yesterday I accidentally saw my fav/follower count and was like DAMN! out of all these people there are probably one or two guys who'd like to see it continued?
> 
> That aside, please notice that the second scene is a flashback. It's quite a big chunk of the text, so I didn't dare use cursive, because I know how much it irritates some people.
> 
> The next story updated will be either this one or Tearing the Veil from Grace.

Harry watched Hedwig fly away. In her claws she carried a letter to his parents and a letter to Regulus, both relaying the news that he wouldn't be coming home that Yule.

Would his parents be sad about it?

Regulus would. In his own way, he always seemed happy when he got to spend time with Harry, a happiness written in the spark of light in his grey eyes, in his relaxed shoulders as he flipped through ledgers while Harry read an adventure-filled book on the lush carpet by the fireplace, in the excited vibrations of his magic when he instructed Harry in the ways of pureblood traditions, modern inventions, and breakthroughs in runic spell-crafting.

The corners of the boy's lips hiked up.

Maybe Uncle Sirius would be there as well to mess his life up in the nicest of ways, or to scare him by retelling his heroics and how many people he had saved from evil Dark wizards and witches… After all, unlike Harry's father who busied himself with paperwork and fancy speeches that he groaned so much about, Sirius was a field Auror. Harry often worried about his godfather. True, they were not close, but he would rather have the man sitting in a comfy office, safe and sound, rather than prancing all across Magical Britain in search of law-breakers.

On the other hand, the wealth of stories accumulated by his godfather had livened up many a night. For Yule, everyone – Harry, his parents, Uncle Reg, and Uncle Sirius – would gather at Potter manor and, once done with a sumptuous feast, exchange tales in a small parlour illuminated by fairy lights, and craft illusions that illustrated great moments in history, and go outside for a broom ride in a snowstorm (his mother would insist on multiple protective enchantments all around the territory, of course), and everyone would laugh, and his parents would even forget to give Uncle Regulus the evil eye or insinuate that he was there to corrupt Harry and take him away from them…

Harry's smile slipped off when he remembered that some people celebrated Yule in a less merry way.

The conversation he had with Tom, just a few days ago, floated into his mind.

* * *

Snowflakes drifted beyond the windowpane, almost fog-like in their density, veiling the lake, and the trees, and the students fooling around and playing snow wars in the haze. Tom's gaze outlined the sketches ice left at the bottom of the glass.

It was still too early for natural snow, but some Ravenclaws were preparing a weather magic project for the Charms Club and thus, with the Headmaster's approval and under Professor Flitwick's supervision, all the students enjoyed an afternoon of wintry fun. Well, those students who liked winter, which wasn't exactly Tom's case. Harry decided to tag along and stay inside as well.

The Ravenclaw sprawled on the dusty floor of yet another vacant classroom, yawning. With the tips of his fingers he clutched his Transfiguration essay, finally complete, albeit – to Tom's disapproval – ink-splattered and with several lines scratched out. McGonagall wouldn't be a happy camper once he handed it in, but no matter how much his mother and Regulus both tried, Harry just couldn't bring himself to write in an elegant spidery scrawl worthy of a pureblood. Even James had better handwriting.

"You are going home for winter holidays, aren't you," Tom's voice broke the placid silence. Harry's yawn froze.

Going home didn't tempt him in the slightest. He had loved the previous Yule, and the one before that, and before that. He loved digging through the presents left by the elves under the Yule tree, and puffing out fairy-lights with his breath at the crack of dawn, as was a Light pureblood tradition, and the merry breakfast when both family friends came, and the afternoon that they all spent playing chess with ice pieces (Lily always won) and animating snow wizards to make them battle each other, and the evening feast during which his mother would hex his father and godfather at least twice each, and the hymn to magic that they sung afterwards, remembering to burn an offering of food on a gold plate…

Even his parents made some time. They were a real family, at Yule.

_This_ year, however… things would be different.

"Probably. Well, maybe… I don't know," Harry said and traced the spots of ink on his scribbles, preferring to wince at McGonagall's reaction to his messy quillmanship rather than mull over Yule and parents yet again. He joined Tom in snowflake-watching.

Tom hummed, and Harry wondered if he had said something wrong. The nearer the winter holidays loomed, the moodier Tom grew. The boy snapped at Daphne and batted Harry's hand away when he tried to pat his shoulder, bit back at Snape and ensconced himself in the library, pouring over books.

_I'd like to help him, but I can't even guess what it is that he needs help with._

Sirius often told him that problems could be solved in two ways: with a hearty hug or with a punch in the nose. Harry doubted that either would work well with Tom.

_Well, what if I try out the hug first, and if he doesn't react too well, go for the punch?_

Harry didn't have much time to implement his strategy, however.

"It must be nice, having a choice," the Slytherin drawled coldly. Harry winced, and a jolt of anger sparked within, because what did Tom know about him, or his life, or the choices he had? But he quickly snuffed it out.

He recognised that coldness. The same coldness he projected when people bothered him about his parents. So, he took a breath and stayed calm. He didn't know Tom's situation, but he had deduced enough to realised that he was worse off than Harry.

"I don't really want to come home this Yule," he said. His voice echoed off the stone walls and empty pictures staring down at them with lifeless landscapes. Harry didn't know what made him want to confess. The setting, maybe. Or Tom's tense shoulders and his voice tinted with sadness.

"Why? Sick of people pandering to your every whim on a regular basis?" Tom mocked. "Showering you with presents?"

"No," Harry snapped. "Because this season is going to be a nightmare. I know you've heard many people talking about how Uncle Reg is going to name me his heir, since he won't have children on his own, and every other member of the Black clan is sick, or married into another family, or disowned." Scoffing, he added, "Well, this rumour is most likely true."

"This is such a great tragedy indeed-"

" _And_ I'm also already heir to an old and respectable pureblood family – even though we're not pureblood anymore after mum." Harry sighed and glowered at his homework. "All this means that my first Yule as a Hogwarts student will be my introduction."

Tom turned around, head cocked, dark brown eyes – deep and beautiful and scrutinising – gleaming with a thirst for secrets.

"Introduction as a magical heir, I assume. Going by the gossip."

"Something like that, yeah. Uncle Reg will invite lots of stodgy guys I've read articles about and hoped to never meet, including the ancient Aunt Araminta with her shrieks about muggle hunt legalisation – how they keep her out of St Mungo's is a mystery, but my guess is that the Janus Thickey ward is very rich with all the bribes they take for releasing her each time – and Aunt Bellatrix who's creepy and handsy, and _everyone_ knows she's connected with half the disappearance cases around Diagon Alley. Then there's Uncle Rosier who's worse than the previous two combined-"

"Really? In what way?"

Should Harry be worried about how eager Tom sounded?

The Slytherin strode towards Harry's book bag, which he dropped on the floor, cast a cleaning charm, and sat on it, apparently too good to sit directly on the dust. The Ravenclaw only rolled his eyes.

_Of course this tosser can't even use his_ own _book bag as a seat._

"The iron fence around his townhouse literally has people's hands on its spikes," Harry leaned in to say softly, ignoring Tom's treatment of his belongings. "The wards, they say, chop off the hands of intruders and string them on those barbs. The Ministry has officially forbidden this practice, and those wards _should_ have been dismantled. Legally, the Aurors are the ones who restrain trespassers, after all… But the number of hands still grows. Somehow." Harry blinked innocently. "It's like… magic!"

Tom chuckled, and Harry wondered how his shoulders hardly moved when he did.

"Now, don't exaggerate," the Slytherin boy said. He musingly twirled his wand in his fingers. "If this is the only reason why you find him so… people like you would say 'monstrous', I assume? Then I find myself disappointed. It's just hands. He does not behead them, does he? And even if he did, intruders have no business on his property."

Harry nibbled on his bottom lip, suddenly reminded of Regulus, who bore the same calm expression when he explained to Harry why muggleborns had better register and why werewolves were a social hazard.

"You know, I sort of worry about what will happen if some poor soul needs help and stumbles across your house to seek it. A real monster, you." Harry shook his head.

Still, a smile hid in the creases around his eyes; he knew Tom's type – he belonged to that category of people who threatened, and whispered about death, and grinned with knife-edged smiles, but never came round to actually carry out the threat. Harry, sure that Tom was just joking when he said things like that, enjoyed the banter. The Slytherin wasn't _serious_.

Tom watched, head tilted, a twist to his lips. He always watched. Things, people. He watched Harry, too, every time they talked.

"You are too harsh to me," Tom drawled. Intense brown eyes slid shut for a moment, and a smirk emerged. "Depending on what they need help in, I may even aid them."

"And rip them off afterwards, yeah."

Harry still remembered how much Tom had wanted to shave off that poor unicorn's tail for helping the beast.

Tom paused. "Well, this is a possibility."

"A certainty, knowing you."

"And you think you know me so well?" Tom raised an eyebrow. The gleam in his eyes intensified.

Harry didn't expect the question, nor did he expect his breath to catch in his throat, because for some reason, Tom looked sombre, and Harry wondered… really, just how much did he truly know Tom?

Harry tensed, opened his mouth to reply, because the air ripened with tension, and the snowflakes beyond the window sped up their dance, falling down in whorls so fast he could barely discern where one ended and the other began-

Tom interrupted his thought process. Didn't allow a single word to fall from his lips.

"Nevermind. Returning to the original topic," the older boy began and speared Harry with a glower, as if _he_ were the distracting one and asking weird questions with a weird face! "I cannot see what your insane relatives have to do with being an heir and politics."

Harry smiled dryly. "Well, welcome to the Wizengamot, then, because all these loonies are its members and I have to get acquainted with them. During my introduction. Which happens on Yule. Merry hols, yay!"

" _These_ people draft the bills," Tom deadpanned, and Harry couldn't say whether he was more amused or horrified.

"And pass the laws," the Ravenclaw boy added. "And they're also our Supreme Court of Justice, and appoint Minister and Heads of the Departments, and many of them participate in international organisations where they represent Britain's interests."

"Hmm," Tom dragged out, raising his eyebrows and lifting his chin. "Fascinating. I gather that this introduction party of your means that you will be allowed to participate in the Wizengamot gatherings afterwards?"

Harry fiddled with the wild black locks at the back of his neck. "If Uncle Reg names me his heir – which I'm not even sure I want, by the way! – and has me formally introduced, it will allow me to be present at the readings and debates, at the meetings of his faction, and the like. Not all of them, of course. Not top-secret meetings. And I wouldn't be allowed at the trials of criminals either, or allowed to speak up at most of them."

Not that he minded. The mere thought of putting himself out there and speaking his mind on an issue that he might even not particularly care about bothered Harry and made him uncomfortable in ways self-confident people like Tom, Regulus, Sirius, or his parents would never understand.

"I have always found this habit of magical families to shove their children straight into adult business very interesting. So different from muggles." A note of approval entered Tom's voice.

"My mother told me that in the muggle world they have universities for this sort of thing," Harry said. "She also likes to say that there are those things, institutions, like Parliament or something, that are very Wizengamot-like but even people who don't come from old families can be employed there. She says it's very democratic. Much better than any magical system ever."

Tom grimaced. "Your mother obviously has had little contact with the muggle world, if she honestly believes that. _Anything_ magical is better."

"Well, it's not like I particularly care about muggles and _their_ politics," Harry mumbled and groaned. "I've got enough with Uncle Reg! But anyway. We don't have universities, but we do have supplementary courses and tutors who teach political science, economics, law, and philosophy. And they prepare us enough."

Every week Regulus would send the boy a short reading list that Harry had to complete and the boy found the texts both fascinating and irritating, and some even made him indignant – when he discovered just how unfair some laws were.

"Do wizards study from muggles or have their own philosophers?"

"Of course we do!" Harry exclaimed and blinked a few times. "There are philosophers _everywhere_. I mean, it's obvious that people observe things and come to conclusions, and then write those conclusions down. Very often they are even really similar. Like, when Professor Dumbledore dropped in for tea, I remember mum telling him that the ideas he expresses in his works are similar to the muggle ideas of- what was it?- Ah, yeah! Utilitarianism!" He frowned. "You know what that is?"

Tom let out an aggravated sigh, and seemed to curse Harry's ignorance with his eyes only.

"In short and simple terms comprehensible even to an ignoramus like you-"

"See if I give you mum's potions notebooks now!"

"-Utilitarianism is an ethical theory, according to which the morally right action is the one that benefits the majority of people-"

"Oh! I see how it's similar to Headmaster Dumbledore's point of view, then." Harry bit his lower lip musingly. Tom glowered at him for interrupting, but the Ravenclaw didn't pay it any mind. "Uncle Reg made me read some of his writings and speeches, and he talks a lot about 'The Greater Good'. Many Dark-sworn families hate this rhetoric. Which is funny, because Grindelwald used the very same slogan in his war – historians still debate who coined it first – and they fully supported him."

Back then, those words were prayers, Walburga Black's portrait had told Harry when recounting her experiences of that epoch, chopped-off elf heads judging them with stares.

Tom waved a hand.

"Obviously, it is much easier to agree with this doctrine when you make part of the majority, and much less inclined to appreciate it when you are not so lucky. If this Dark Lord had won, _they_ would have been privileged."

Harry marked the thoughtful look that darted across Tom's face, and wanted to ask how deeply the fascination with Dark magic ran in Tom. He held his tongue. In the polite society people didn't ask directly what type of magic someone wanted to swear allegiance to, not until they set their minds on declaring themselves Light, Dark, or Neutral. Anyone could speculate and assume, but no one, not even the Weasleys who denounced the majority of pureblood ways, asked.

"Probably, yeah." Harry shifted on the hard floor, realising, with resignation, that his behind was numb from all the seating on stone floors; they honestly had to choose better places for their regular talks and meetings. "So, this Utilitarianism thingy resembles greatly the 'For the Greater Good' teachings that we have. This is one of the many philosophies that our people and muggles share, even if we give different names to them. I don't fancy philosophical debates much, though. It's my mother who's fond of all this stuff. Headmaster Dumbledore used to visit her a lot, when she had more free time, and they drank tea in the kitchen and I kept trying to eavesdrop – until father caught on and started taking me out for broom rides during those visits, that is."

A wistful smile crossed his face. Memories of skies and birds, of James' merry laughter and Lily's scolding when she had to lead him out of the kitchen by the ear flitted across his mind.

Tom watched, as always, and said nothing.

Harry shook off sadness, picking up their previous topic.

"So, the children born to politically-inclined families as well as those taken as heirs and heiresses are required to read this stuff and study, but witches and wizards have always found that practice teaches best, and so we have to spend our teens observing how politics work in practice, not limiting ourselves to theory and dusty tomes."

Humming lightly, Tom didn't show whether he agreed with this type of education. Harry suppressed a sigh of relief. He didn't want to defend his ancestors' point of view in case Tom derided it. He didn't want a debate. They exhausted him, and Tom, being his pushy and high-handed self, was bound to be even more exhausting than anyone else.

The only person with whom Harry didn't mind debating was Blaise who didn't judge him for his opinions (erm, visibly, at least) and generally behaved in a patient, cool way, preferring to rationalise rather than fly off the handle protecting his standpoint.

While Tom pondered, Harry attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"How do you usually spend Yule with your family, Tom?" he asked, leaning in and almost placing his hand on the edge of Tom's sleeve before remembering that the Slytherin didn't appreciate this type of contact.

Tom's eyes darkened.

Apparently, he was steering in the wrong direction.

"I certainly don't have lavish introduction parties slated to occur at that house," Tom hissed. Harry flinched at the tone and wondered why the boy didn't say 'home'. The Slytherin regained his bearings in a second and sent him a bland smile, as if it could erase the loss of control from Harry's memory. "I would prefer to stay at Hogwarts for Chri- Yule, in fact."

Harry smiled reassuringly. His hand crawled to Tom's elbow for a short pat. "It's not a bad idea at all. Ron's family is staying, too."

The grimace on the Slytherin's face didn't exactly convey any happiness. Harry suppressed a snicker.

"And we'll both have the dorms to ourselves! I don't really mind the guys, but sometimes they're just so _noisy_. Well, Anthony is fine, but Michael, Terry, and Stephen get real loud when they disagree on the usage of murtlap essence and the like, and they can go on long, long into the night."

"You are lucky," Tom deadpanned. Harry's jaw dropped. It dropped even lower when Tom let out a wistful sigh. "This is an educational debate, at least. Believe me, dorm life is so much worse on my end of things. I swear, if I hear another argument between Zabini and Malfoy about which colour compliments Nott's complexion better, I shall transfigure them both into underwear and give to Crabbe and Goyle."

"Wow, this is the first revenge idea I've heard from you that doesn't involve gore. Congratulations." Harry shuddered. "But somehow it's much worse."

Tom smirked. They discussed light topics afterwards, but Harry could read Tom's magical aura and knew that the Slytherin's dread and sadness hadn't vanished.

* * *

"This is Circe Slytherin," Snape said in his usual low voice. "Behind her portrait lies one of the many secrets Salazar Slytherin left this school. All you need is a password. 'Pride of the Pure'."

The woman, tan, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a twist to her lips that reminded Tom of Zabini, nodded, and the canvas that depicted her slid to the right, revealing a low-ceilinged little corridor. A lone candle illuminated a door inside. Snape strode towards it. Unhurriedly, scrutinising his surroundings, Tom followed.

It was one of the few times when he could feel his magic as if it were a living entity residing in his body, an entity that obeyed him most of the time and lay still, but fluttered now. In anxiety or anticipation, Tom didn't know. A smirk tugged at his lips at Snape's infuriated look when the man arrived at the small door, and Tom was still studying the stones on the walls. He didn't move an inch.

"This is a fine example of masonry," the boy said innocently as an explanation.

Snape's nostrils flared yet he said nothing. His eyes promised slicing Tom up into Dark potions ingredients the next time he got the chance. The tiny door opened with a squeak. A literal squeak. Something a person whose foot was trod on would utter. The boy blinked.

"Lady Slytherin wasn't fond of Transfiguration. She wasn't fond of a fellow classmate either," Snape murmured with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. "Obviously she chose to participate in an end-of-year Transfiguration project with him."

"We don't have Transfiguration end-of-year projects."

"After hers, indeed, we do not."

Tom hummed and looked the door over. When he was passing through, surreptitiously, he dragged a nail down its surface. Harshly. A whimper responded. Tom's lips curled in a smile.

The next room wasn't tiny at all. Tom's breath hitched in his throat at the vastness of the chamber they entered, the grandness it presented. Walls were of a stone streaked with burgundy. The only furniture consisted of several rickety chairs heaped together in a corner, and a leather sofa, looking ridiculously modern and occupied by a couple of lounging Hufflepuffs. Out of the few other people present Tom recognised Zabini and Davis. Both were bickering lazily. Snape noticed.

"If you feel the pressing need to fool around, I advice that you do that in your common room," the Potions Master hissed. Davis scrunched up her face and turned away, but Tom glimpsed her lips mouthing an insult. Zabini shrugged and fetched himself a chair. Tom noted that a few others just dropped on the floor.

Snape, satisfied after unleashing his negativity, glowered at Tom.

"Mr Riddle. I hope that you understand the importance of what the book I gave you tried to teach."

"I understand," Tom responded, eyes narrowed and head held high. "It stresses how important control is to a Dark wizard or witch. It also mentions the fields where Dark Magic is used, most prominently compulsion and mental arts. It stresses that there are many definitions of what Dark Magic is as well, and warns that it uses the classification that dominates the Western European magical community."

"The most vital part of all of that is control," Snape said. "And not over other people, that is, the compulsion you seem so well-versed in-" Tom ignored the venomous look. "-but control over one's own magic."

Tom disagreed. _If you can control others, it doesn't matter if you lose control over yourself – you can make them fear you too much to even notice._

"I understand," the Slytherin repeated, camouflaging his opinion. "There is something I couldn't help but notice when reading, though: it is all highly theoretical. While I have seen some basics of compulsion magic described there-" And Tom discovered many, many interesting things. "-and the theory of control, there is no practical guidance on _how_ to master Dark Magic."

A slight pout to his lip gave out his disappointment.

A smile bloomed on Snape's face. It was anything but pleasant and filled Tom with deep mistrust and dislike towards the man.

"Control is gained with experience. And now I will provide you with an opportunity to make the first step towards gaining it."

Tom felt eyes on him and heard Tracey Davis stifling a laugh in the sleeve of her robe, while Zabini and a few others smirked. A Gryffindor boy whom Tom remembered seeing often with the Weasley twins sent him a compassionate look.

Snape led Tom deeper into the room. A few flicks of his wand and a murmured spell produced a slab of metal, thick and heavy. When it dropped, Tom winced at the loudness and the resonating echo.

"You will learn a spell now. A Dark spell. Not quite forbidden by the Ministry, obviously, since we can hardly place our Headmaster in a sticky situation, yet not something a self-respecting-" Snape sneered. "-Light wizard or witch would willingly use. _Sectis_."

Snape whipped out his wand so fast Tom hardly saw his hand move, and a second later a spell careened towards the slab of metal, splitting it in two.

A _Diffindo_ couldn't have done that.

A _Diffindo_ was too weak.

Tom's eyes lit up.

He liked all spells, all branches of magic, all the bits of theory, which he absorbed like a sponge, but this, here, was the part he _loved_.

_Power._

He smiled and thought of rabbit blood smearing the rafters and high-pitched screams echoing in a dark cavern. Magic, not unlike electricity, danced along his fingertips, tingled across his shoulders. His wand warmed in his pocket.

"Flitwick ceaselessly sings you praises," Snape murmured in a voice that reflected clearly his disdain. "Once, he told me you are capable of learning any spell within an hour…" A nasty smirk flashed across thin lips. "Well, let's not disappoint him. You have an hour to learn his spell, Mr Riddle, and then you will cast it in front of me."

That said, the Potions Master turned on his heels and dramatically stalked away.

An hour was too long. Tom got most incantations in less time than that, actually, especially when competing with Harry (somehow, rivalry with the Ravenclaw always stimulated him more than anything else). Still, considering that this was his first time casting a dark spell, he reminded himself to be careful.

Tracey Davis wouldn't be giggling so nastily if it was as easy as it seemed.

"Hey, want a hand?" a voice broke through the silence. The black Gryffindor boy Tom had noticed earlier pushed forward, a worried expression on his face.

How disconcerting, to see kindness towards a Slytherin.

"Jordan!" one of the Hufflepuff girls snapped. "Professor Snape is gonna flip if you lend him a hand."

"Well, he's gonna flip either way, when this kid doesn't master the spell in an hour," Jordan – Lee Jordan, Tom remembered his name now – reasoned, raising his hands. "Even if he does somehow manage, he'll fail to resist the allure of the Dark Arts and Snape will damn hate him anyway!"

Tom's hands clenched into fists and he cut in with a smile, before the Hufflepuff could intervene, "I would like to take the chance to do it myself, thank you."

Jordan shuddered a little, and Tom hoped it was because of his glower and not the cold. Judging by the laugh and the shrug that followed, his glowers still weren't impressive enough.

_Now that's something I'd like to learn from Snape._

"Whatever you wish, kiddo."

"We're not much younger than you, Jordan," Davis pointed out. She, Jordan, Zabini, and the Hufflepuff girl joined in a discussion, but Tom stormed to the other end of the room, closer to the slab of metal. His dark eyes traced both the ruined and the newly conjured one.

_Something is not right here…_

The transparency. Of course. Tom tilted his head and remarked that, yes, the sliced chunks were a few hues less intense than the newly-conjured steel. They were fading, slowly. And while Tom couldn't see the flow of magic, he felt it seeping out, having always been attuned to it. The newer metal was rife with imperfections as well if you knew where to look. Vindictively, Tom remarked that Snape must be pretty dismal at Transfiguration.

With a jolt he realised that for all Snape's proficiency in Potions and, as rumours went, DADA, didn't mean that the wizard was all that powerful, no matter how much that scowling face wanted it to be so. Every witch and wizard had their failings. Not that surprising, considering the infinity of realms of magic to play with, and the way they interplayed and converged to spawn more…

Tom scrutinised the slab of metal and wondered how long one would take to master everything.

One life surely wouldn't be enough.

Could magic give him several?

Shaking off the thought, he focused on his wand and the magic pulsing inside like a second heart, an unceasing soundtrack to his life.

Tom had many failings still, but Dark Magic was not one of them.

Was not supposed to be.

* * *

An idea hit Harry like a ton of gobstones.

His parents were rather close to the Headmaster, enough to allow some… privileges.

(So, yes, maybe he had spent enough time with Uncle Reg to get used to special treatment).

Perhaps he could convince the old man to let them wander into Hogsmeade for a day or arrange a trip into the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid as a guide – this time with no dead unicorns and bellicose centaurs. Hopefully.

He could also show Tom a couple of Light rituals, to balance out his Dark side. Since the Slytherin still hadn't cemented his allegiance with a formal procedure, the boy could dabble in both, just like Harry.

Suddenly, the wish to show Tom all the beauty of magic burnt in Harry's heart. Show that their world wasn't only prejudice and danger. There were also blessings, and healings, and lanterns that illuminated goblin labyrinths, and a single day of the year when no magical creature harmed another, and Samhain rituals that returned your loved ones for one moment.

Harry skipped three steps on the staircase by the Charms classroom and looked utterly ridiculous, but his mind only focused on how to show all this to Tom.

…Except, he wouldn't get that chance. Not that day.

Not for a few more weeks.

* * *

Tom was so concentrated on fulfilling his task that he hardly noticed a long shadow fall across the stones.

"Mr Riddle," Snape's acrid voice murmured from behind. It was not the sort of voice a normal person would want to hear while they were practising Dark Magic in a dungeon with people who disliked you. Actually, to be fair to Snape, his voice wasn't the kind a normal person would want to hear ever. "I trust that you have finished."

"Of course, sir," Tom replied, perfectly polite - or rather, acting so, for once even bothering with Snape.

Tom always found it easier to be polite when he was outright lying. And he was outright lying now.

In theory, Sectis was easy.

And it was ridiculous how much Tom struggled in reality!

He had mastered the wand motions within a few tries; there were no traps there, the movements easy and smooth, flowing one into each other. He enunciated the incantation clearly. The intent... Well, he just imagined Montague's or Pucey's intestines slithering out of their stomachs, and suddenly it was quite easy to summon, too.

Too easy, in fact. And Tom fell into the pitfall of every beginner Darkling: he lost control.

Thankfully, the mini-dungeon, or the practice room as Jordan had called it, had emptied by now. Only Zabini and Tracey remained, as well as a couple of Ravenclaw witches who whispered back and forth and didn't pay much attention to Tom's drama, and the newly-arrived Warrington. The latter threw him worried glances that both warmed something inside Tom and, to a greater extent, irritated him to the point of losing himself deeper into the Arts he was trying to practise.

He still wasn't ready. And Snape had lied; it had only been forty minutes, not a full hour.

_Of course, I cannot back down when there is Snape breathing down my neck._

Tom had never felt as vulnerable as when he closed his eyes and inhaled, summoning up every bit of courage and power in him. And control. The essential part.

Snape was snidely saying something, of course, and nothing that came out of Snape's mouth was good. Not when it was directed at a boy who was a friend of a Potter spawn. Tom drowned him out. He didn't need criticism and judgement when he was trying to concentrate.

His hand lifted, wand held tight.

" _Sectis_!"

The spell slid off his wand easily, like water running from a tap. A quick flash – and there were two chunks of metal in place of one. Tom's eyes lit up in triumph.

He succeeded!

Only, it didn't end there.

A sudden desire to cast more pierced him through. To cut. Another _Sectis_ danced off the edge of his tongue. He heard a curse and thought it might have been Ceneric Warrington who cussed. He heard Tracey Davis throwing a cutting remark tinged with fear.

He glanced into Zabini's eyes and – whether through Legilimency or pure instinct that guided him so much, he didn't know – he saw knowledge. Zabini, just like everyone there, had known that Tom would lose himself.

But Tom only wanted to cut.

And he didn't particularly care whether he would cut metal, wood... or flesh.

He smiled. Whirling around on his heels, he swept the air with his wand and sent a curse towards the Potions Master.

* * *

"Don't worry, Hagrid, we'll come again soon!" Harry told the half-giant brightly. "I'll even bring Tom with me, if you want."

Harry petted the unicorn in goodbye and, dragging Ron with him, took the direction towards the castle. The redhead muttered a goodbye as well and exhaled in relief when he could finally throw away the stone cake he had been forced to pretend to chew.

"Bring Tom next time? Is there something I don't know 'bout your relationship with that guy, mate?" Ron asked with a snicker. Harry threw him a filthy look.

"Shut up, Ron. You know as well as I do that bringing To- _Riddle_ there when he apparently loves animals so much is next to impossible. Even if he did stop being an outright jerk. Which is definitely above his level."

Ron shook his head. "Slytherins. What else did you expect?"

"Not all Slytherins are bad," Harry mildly rebuked. "And I know you know it, too, because you're not stupid enough to chunk a hundred of absolutely different people together because of something that was decided when they were eleven. You're smarter than this, Ron."

A beatific smile bloomed on his face.

Ron blushed and fiercely scrubbed the back of his neck, hidden by a knitted hat. Harry mentally smirked and patted himself on the shoulder for having discovered a way to deal with Ron's prejudices – nothing made the Gryffindor boy reflect on his behaviour as guilt-tripping.

"You might - and I say might! - have a point, but don't think I don't know what you're doing," Ron mumbled into his red and gold scarf that had a lion stitched by Mrs Weasley onto one of the ends.

"Oh? And what exactly?"

"Being a Slytherin."

"I'm in Ravenclaw. I've got a badge on my drawer to prove it."

"Well, badges can be bought anywhere, no? And just because you're a Ravenclaw doesn't mean you can't have Slytherin trai-" Ron stopped short and glowered. "You did it again!"

Harry burst out laughing. "You should see your face!" He waved a snowflake off his nose with a mitten-clad hand. The snow was real this time, not an illusion or manipulation of nature by weather magic users. Winter had come. "Don't worry, I'll stop inflicting my unbiased views on you for now. I just wanted to have some fun."

"At my expense," Ron pointed out with no bite. "Can't say I don't understand, though – did you hear of the smashing victory the Cannons had last week? I made sure Dean understood how wrong he had been when he called them a bunch of incompetents with brooms!"

Harry refrained from pointing out that this was the first victory the Cannons had had in years, and a very minor one, against a barely known team that was the only one worse off in the whole of Britain. There were just some things you don't make fun of if you want to stay friends.

Not far from them Harry glimpsed a familiar group of students, Gryffindors, huddled close together, clothes obviously soaked with warming charms, drawing and laughing and chatting animatedly. Both muggle paper and parchment, which they clutched in their gloved hands, depicted wintry landscapes and people wearing strange clothes of the girls' design.

"Dean!" Ron shouted congenially, ambling to his dorm mate before Harry could get a word in. He sighed at the idea of socialising yet again – he loved Hagrid but he had drained him – but dutifully followed his friend, giving a polite wave to Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. They hardly noticed, engaged in their own talk. He didn't mind.

"Hey," Dean greeted in response, putting away a small drawing of Hagrid's hut and the adjoining vegetable garden that yielded fruit and vegetables in any season. "I don't think it's a good idea to return to the dorms right now, Ron. It's a real bad day to be a Weasley. Lee Jordan and your bros let loose Lee's tarantula and, well, it made some folks _really_ unhappy." Dean wiggled his eyebrows.

"No, not unhappy, cutie-pie," Lavender piped up. Her eyes trained on the paper on her knees, her hand in a hot pink glove speedily sketched the fluid lines of a dress. "On the contrary – very _hex_ -happy."

"And they might just decide that _any_ Weasley will do," Harry summed up.

Ron's face convulsed in horror, still stuck at the word 'tarantula'. Seemed like he wasn't going to the dorms any time soon.

"You can stay here with us for a while," Parvati offered, smiling brightly. The plump girl with lovely dark-brown eyes was holding a plastic box full of drawing and painting supplies on her knees. "Especially if you like art and don't mind this guy here-" She poked Dean in the ribs. "-going on tangents about obscure muggle sports no one cares about but him."

"Uh-huh. What was it, footsie?" Lavender asked, glaring when Dean bumped her on the head and displaced her woollen hat.

"I think you mean ' _football'_ ," Harry corrected with a laugh.

Sometimes he longed to be in Gryffindor; Ravenclaws were generally too absorbed in their own latest craze or research to really hang out with each other.

Like now, when Anthony Goldstein was showing Su Li the peculiarities of some spells in Hebrew, while Michael Corner was pursuing an extra credit project for Sprout, and Padma Patil was trying to convince Snape to let her use his laboratory so she could brew an eyesight-blurring potion using a Bangladeshi recipe. Everyone had a special project. And Harry was feeling just the tiniest bit lonely, especially since Tom-

Dean rushed to chew Lavender's head off for poking fun at his beloved sport, with Ron joining in – and confusing football with Quidditch at times – while Harry curiously observed that the snowflakes that steadily streamed onto the drawings melted away without damaging the paper. Actually, they left no wetness behind at all! Not even on himself: a snowflake landed right in his eye and he didn't feel it.

Parvati giggled at his astounded expression. Her yellow aura, wrapped around her head in a wreath-like fashion, flared in amusement. Harry remembered that Padma's magic manifested to his sight as bracelets clamping down on her wrists, green and brown and very still, vibrating musingly instead of blazing and striking out like, for instance, Tom's did.

Thoughts about Tom wormed their way into his mind again.

They hadn't met outside of the classroom since Halloween, and even in the Charms Club every effort to talk to him ended with a stubborn lift of the chin on the Slytherin's part.

By now Harry had even _sat with Blaise_ , _twice_ , and the blasted boy didn't even raise an eyebrow!

"It's a charm mum taught me," Parvati said. Harry focused on her.

"You can do weather magic?" he asked and didn't bother hiding how impressed he was; weather magic belonged to the most volatile of branches: the wind, the storm, the rain, the sun, the moon, the stars refused to bend to a witch's will.

Parvati only laughed.

"Of course not! Mum can do some, and Padma knows some theory, you know her, but it's too complicated and, well, not particularly useful for me." She shrugged. "No, what I'm using is a rune-powered spell. Ta-da!"

She gestured at the pieces of parchment lying scattered around the bench and the group, the scraps that Harry had taken for discarded drafts. He picked one up. An array of glyphs stared back at him. Despite having never taken runes, he had glimpsed enough of them in the house or at his parents' work to recognise that some of those depicted on the parchment strengthened the magic of the caster.

He also recognised the grainy, rough texture of the parchment.

Runic paper.

While runes could be put on the parchment or engraved on any surface, to work they needed a burst of magic. Logical, considering that they would have been impossible to study if no one could put them into textbooks because they were activated as soon as they were drawn. That was also why runic lore turned out to be an unpredictably challenging branch of magic for many, especially for muggleborns: simply memorising runic alphabets and how they functioned individually and together didn't suffice; one had to direct magic into the rune, and not everybody possessed such a fine control over their core.

So, eventually, a scientist named Athena Shacklebolt, the legendary founder of that family, invented the formula for runic paper. Manufacturers soaked it with magic. All you had to do was simply to draw the rune or an array of them in a certain shape, cast a spell if needed (or activate it by touch), and voila – the effect.

"Did your mother draw them for you?" Harry asked. He had come across enough runes to guess the answer – they were drawn perfectly and smoothly, as if a typewriter for runes existed and spewed out those beauties.

"I would have never managed myself." Parvati shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "My lines are all squiggly and off, and mum couldn't stomach looking at me 'torturing myself and wasting paper', as she called it, so she grabbed the quill and did it for me."

Harry smiled and said, "Reminds me of how my mother tried to teach me potions. At first, I just didn't get it. I didn't get it later either, but learnt to fake it well enough."

He winked. Parvati laughed, throwing her head back as she always did, and thumbed up.

"Atta boy!" She eyed him inquisitively. "You aren't that stuffy for a friend of Padma's, you know."

"Not _that_ stuffy?" Harry snorted. "Gee, thanks. Here I find out the sad truth about myself."

"Well, you've got to admit that you 'Claws devote too much time to books and journals, and too little to people." Parvati patted him on the arm, almost dropping her box.

Harry eyed her sceptically. "You're as full of stereotypes as Ron," he complained.

"I know my sister and she fits each and every one of them." Parvati huffed and rolled her eyes. Her words lacked malice, so Harry smiled. The Patil twins enjoyed teasing each other and behaved quite unlike the Weasley twins, but their actions evidenced the ties of love that bound them.

After a short chat, Harry left Ron with his housemates and slunk off to the tower, wondering whether to tackle ghosts, Quirrell, the murders in the Forbidden Forest or his homework first.

* * *

As it turned out, he didn't have much of a chance for any of these.

In a little corridor that served as a shortcut to the Ravenclaw Tower, one James had told Harry about in a quick not-quite-letter, he bumped into Blaise. Literally. Stumbling backwards, he just barely avoided a basalt stake impaled in the wall for whatever ghastly purpose.

"If this is a bizarre Slytherin scheme to get rid of a Ravenclaw academic rival, you've almost succeeded," Harry accused.

He scrunched his nose. The smell of earth and something like rotting fish pervaded his senses.

"I knew you'd be passing by here!" exclaimed Blaise as a greeting before hugging Harry tightly. The hug was over before he could make up his mind to respond.

Harry, used to having his accusations ignored, only sighed and asked, "How long did you for wait me?"

"Time passes by quickly when you've snitched some books from Madame Pince's library," Blaise said wisely and gestured at several tomes strewn across the carpeted floor of the hideaway. All of them had cauldrons or herbs on the cover. "Besides, this corridor is amazing. An Acromantula must have lived at Hogwarts at some point because there were several poison-streaked cobwebs."

Harry smartly didn't ask why he didn't see any. He just hoped that if Blaise decided to commit a murder, he would do it far away from Hogwarts so Harry could pretend he didn't know the culprit. One of Acromantula poison's main traits was blood tears; quite a flashy way to go.

"Speaking of poisons… How is your potions essay going?" Blaise's voice cut through his swathe of thoughts.

Harry blanched.

"Which essay?" he asked and prayed he had misheard.

Blaise blinked innocently. "You know, the one we have to prepare for tomorrow. Snape promised he wouldn't let anyone take exams if they haven't handed it in, or am I wrong?"

Harry stared at him, aghast and lost.

"Your sorry face tells me all I need to know about the state of your potions homework. Which is even sorrier than this."

Harry ran a hand down his hair and dropped to the floor. Pulling on the edge of the Slytherin's sleeve, he dragged him down with him. They sat side by side, Harry in his still wet coat and Blaise in high-quality robes.

"Snape's been so brutal lately."

Harry wondered if it was because of an injury he had sustained. That limp. It had appeared right after Halloween, around the day Tom stopped talking to the Ravenclaw and isolated himself from his peers.

"Hasn't he always?" Blaise asked with a casual shrug. He leaned closer to Harry and the smell of apples wafted into the shorter boy's nose. "That said, he can be quite funny."

Harry snorted. "When you're a Slytherin and one of his favourites, sure."

"Please, Potter, I'm far from a favourite. I'm not his dear godson like Malfoy - I have a perfectly agreeable godfather in Italy, thank you very much - and I'm not some Potions prodigy like Greengrass."

Everyone was astounded when the blonde proved to be very quick to pick up on the material. Harry wondered if it was because she wanted to be a partner worthy of Tom and studied arduously for it.

Then again, just because she was a girl with an obvious crush on the Slytherin boy didn't mean that everything she did traced back to it.

"Being a prodigy doesn't mean anything." The Ravenclaw shook his head. "Not in Snape's class. He despises Hermione. And you know how he's been behaving with Tom..."

Initially, Harry had blamed himself for Tom's strenuous relationship with Snape. After all, it had been for his sake that the Slytherin boy had spoken up against his Head of House that first time. And Snape wasn't the type to let something like that slide easily. Or at all.

Yet in the past weeks he perceived an edge to Snape's insults towards Tom that hadn't been present before. Now Tom's wasn't a proxy for letting out his anger on Harry; there ran something deeper, personal there.

Heck, Snape even ignored Harry!

The green-eyed boy should have been happy, but worry and sadness settled in his heart instead.

Blaise smirked.

"I don't need to be a Legilimens to know what you're thinking."

"Good to know. I'd be a shoddy Occlumens - I absolutely can't stop thinking things over and meditate or remove myself from the situation around me." Harry paused and rolled an old candle stub with a foot. "Look, Blaise, will you please tell me what the deal with Tom is? It's been weeks! And that bastard still won't talk to me!"

"Yes, he's ignoring you. Riddle has shown himself as much of an ungrateful nincompoop as we've always known him to be."

Harry glared at his friend.

"He has nothing to be grateful for! All of you have been giving him a hard time since the very beginning! Aside from Daphne and Millicent, but both their families are known to be tolerant of muggleborns."

Sometimes Harry trembled with the desire to announce that Tom might be a halfblood or even a pureblood… except he was certain that the Slytherin wouldn't appreciate his meddling.

"Well, it's not written anywhere that Slytherins have to love each member of our House," Blaise drawled and leaned in. "Besides… Snape even has a legitimate reason to be angry. Your pet mudblood has tried to kill him."

After that dramatic whisper Harry waited for the punch line. The other boy simply stared at him intently. Crossing his legs, the Ravenclaw wetted his lips and tried to drive out the thumping of his heart in his ears.

"Well, it's not like I can fault him this initiative, but Tom strikes me as the sort of guy who'd ensure that no one knew it's him if he killed someone."

"You're mistaken, I believe." Blaise placed a warm hand on Harry's shoulder. "Riddle lacks patience. He's very passionate and very unstable. You used to spend a lot of time with him for a while, yes, but I am living with that arsehole and know how hard it is for him to restrain himself when we… lightly tease him."

"It's a good thing I'm not there when you 'lightly tease him'," Harry said coldly and shook Blaise's hand off. The other only smirked, amused.

"Relax. Daphne won't let anyone roughen him up too badly, and Theo prevents Malfoy from stomping all over him."

Harry mentally snorted at the thought of Draco Malfoy 'stomping' over Tom. True, the blond was ingenuous in his own way and quite a good student – not because of his parents' influence, at that – but he simply paled in comparison with Tom's viciousness and genius.

"Anyway, don't get off topic, Blaise. What exactly happened? I'm tired of not knowing."

And tired of seeing Tom alone and being alone himself. Blaise only rolled his eyes.

"It wasn't on purpose. It went like this: Snape was testing him on the Dark Arts, and you know Snape. He's not exactly kind to those he doesn't like, so he thought up this impossible test for Tom: to learn his first Dark spell and cast it without falling victim to the lure of the Dark-"

"But Tom is powerful! And the more powerful the caster is, the harder it is to retain control! Ugh, that arsehole. Tom should have been eased into casting Dark spells by using Grey incantations first!"

"I'm perfectly aware of that, Potter. It's obvious that Snape didn't want your pet to have control." Blaise smirked. "And he didn't. He went berserk and started casting it right and left. I was there," he added.

Harry's heart spared a burst of worry for his other Slytherin friend at this.

"Were you hurt?"

"Only morally. Seeing such a bad casting of Dark Arts..."

Harry punched him.

"Warrington erected some barriers just in time." Blaise sneered. "He's a werewolf sympathiser but he can be intelligent when he wishes."

Thanks to the anti-werewolf propaganda, even the people who used to be neutral towards werewolves were suddenly expressing increasingly negative opinions towards them.

"Poor Tom," Harry murmured. "I can only guess that all of you are going tough on him for the loss of control even when you all know that it wasn't his fault."

"It's fun. And it's not like Riddle hadn't needed to be taken down a few notches. True, he gets us House points, but we had seven victories in a row, and this year is unlikely to be different."

Harry decided not to point out the obvious presence of Hermione Granger in the Gryffindor House and the fact that if not for Tom, Gryffindor would be far outstripping Slytherin in the inter-House competition now.

"Look, this is ridiculously unfair. Tom doesn't deserve to be punished, and you're going to prevent your housemates from taunting him for things that are not his fault. And I'll deal with the Snape problem somehow."

Especially when it had started because of Harry. Usually Snape spared the members of his house.

"Why would I help you?"

"We are friends, aren't we?"

Eventually, Blaise sighed. "I'll get others off his back, but I'm definitely not thanking you for forcing me to spend more time arguing with Malfoy. The bastard's crafty. If he enchants my shoes to glow pink and sing every time I make a step, I'm going to dissect him, and you'll be the one explaining this political disaster to my mother and Lucius Malfoy."

Harry barely held himself back from hugging the boy.

Thinking on it, he decided why not? And threw all his weight on the Slytherin.

* * *

Harry had one final task to complete before starting on his homework: find Tom.

He cursed his mother for forbidding him to take the Marauders' Map. That was it; he was officially stealing it next summer.

He wandered through a few vanishing passageways that reappeared in different parts of the castle and made him stray, slipped on a stair charmed to trip the one walking on it, and accidentally walked into a tiny room that was so dark he couldn't see his own hands and stayed so until he cast Nox rather than Lumos.

Finally, he found Tom. It was in a classroom, behind a strong locking charm. Harry thanked the Charms Club, not for the first time, for teaching him how to break in and magically picklock.

When he entered, his feet stumbled over an orchid-patterned letterbox and he flapped his arms in the air like windmill vanes, just barely not falling. Dust-smelling docksies fluttered out and up, and clung to a glimmering torch.

Tom was standing in the middle of the room, his silhouette limned by the ever-present purple magic and his eyes glaring steadily at Harry.

A graveyard of sliced letterboxes, chairs, desks, and torches crowded his feet.

By the spark in Tom's eyes Harry recognised someone coming down from a Dark Magic-induced craze.

"I can't believe you ignored me for weeks just because you failed to murder Snape. You know I wouldn't have judged you. Neither for failing nor the intentions," he tried to joke. Tension and magic shimmered in the air.

Tilting his head, Tom stepped forth, his posture wary, a sardonic twist to his lips.

"Luckily for him, I wasn't trying to kill him. Yet." Tom's chin jerked. "I did slice his leg though. There was a lot of blood." A pause. "Are you scared?"

And Harry suddenly realised why Tom had refused all contact with him since that accident, when Harry could have helped him, could have supported him.

Tom was afraid Harry would reject him. The Ravenclaw almost laughed.

"Don't be silly. I felt comfortable enough discussing revenge on Pucey and Montague. We'll just add Snape to the list." Harry scowled and ignored the pang at the memory of the time when he was almost friends with the man. "Now, we should definitely do something about these abandoned classrooms if we're going to practise Dark Magic. A permanent, better hidden place would be nice. And I know just the person who will be of help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> \- Utilitarianism. I know this was a really short and lacking definition, but I don't think that Tom would know that much about it, no matter how informed he tries to look in front of Harry. After all, he's an 11-year-old and philosophy isn't among his major interests, at least not yet. (Oh, and somehow the very first thing that came to my mind when a teacher first introduced us to this concept was 'Dumbledore!' Anyone else who thinks the same?)
> 
> \- Things are looking up for Tom after this chapter! I just wanted him to experience at least one magic-related defeat in his early years instead of making things too easy... That said, I think that in my fic he gets a much fairer treatment than he did in the actual canon - he doesn't look as poor as he would have in the 40s, the attitude towards muggleborns is more neutral, Dumbledore doesn't hate him, and he's friends both with Harry and a Greengrass, which keeps others off his back, at least in part. (Except for Snape, lol. I'm rather mean to him in this chapter, yes, but don't worry, I don't really hate him).
> 
> \- There are only three chapters to go before the end of the first year. Next chapter: a fluffy Yule, the Bloody Baron, a place Tom and Harry could call their own in Hogwarts, training together, and Harry being sneaky and naughty with Professor Quirrell.
> 
> \- Finally, just so you know, if you're more comfortable writing a review in French, Italian, Russian, or Japanese rather than English, feel free to! I don't promise to respond in anything other than English (my French grammar will make French people cry lol), but I'll understand you ;)


	13. The Gift of Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, what you're seeing is me crawling back from the grave. My updates may be dead, like, most of the time, but my heart is alive with the fierce love for you all. Thank you so much for all your reviews and messages! Hope you enjoy this chapter!

"Do you remember me?" Harry asked as soon as he looked around and ensured they were the only occupants of the corridor.

"I remember every person brave enough to talk to me, especially so insolent about it as you were."

"…Let's pretend it was a compliment."

Harry blew off a lock of hair getting into his glasses. Friendships with  _certain_  people inured him to insults. He honestly had no idea whether it was a good development.

"Pretending is a good hobby to have, albeit neither profitable nor intelligent." The Baron paused and his body hovered strangely, more still than usual. "What leads you, Harry Potter, a  _Ravenclaw_  student, to seek my company?"

"What makes you think I didn't just want to speak to you? Your conversation isn't too bad. You know, for a ghost. You're much less weird than others."

Harry shuddered when he remembered other Hogwarts ghosts.

An old man murmuring to himself and drawing signs on walls and carpets, his empty eye sockets bleeding red.

A young girl wearing a uniform of an old style and Hufflepuff colours sidling across the corridors, her limbs mixed-up, in disarray; consequences of spell damage.

A professor striding across the dungeons begging Harry to  _please please please release me, let me out, yes I'll give out higher marks, I won't shout at students anymore, just please-_

Harry couldn't guess the gender of the professor; spectral worms had long since devoured the flesh barely covered by a teacher's cloak.

(Michael Corner and Hermione helped him research the matter. A group of students cast a spell to remove the door as a way to get back at a nasty teacher but forgot the place and were too scared to confess. They didn't know the room contained magical plants. The teacher rotted away alive after tasting the fruit).

Because of his gift, Harry alone saw this type of ghosts.

Unfortunately, he was one of the few people  _they_  saw as well.

Sometimes being special sucked.

He wondered if rendering those ghosts invisible to most of the student population was part of the binding on them. After all, showing them to first-year muggleborns would increase the level of trauma from their education. The only person to give Harry an answer would be the Bloody Baron... who was talking to him.

The spirit's eyes gleamed, as if he guessed the boy's thoughts.

"Now, now, I have no appreciation for those who offend my kin." The Baron crossed his hands on the blood-spattered chest. "How many ghosts have you talked to in your life to judge? Furthermore, even if you did seek my conversation, it would be merely a part of your motive."

Harry flushed.

"It is not a bad thing. You are talking to a ghost of the Slytherin House, remember? Double motives are what my house prides itself in."

The Bloody Baron's family as well, if the rumours that he was Salazar Slytherin's son were true.

"Yeah, I know, but double motives are a Slytherin thing and you know how many guys think that if you're Sorted into one House, having qualities typical of another is a crime."

Harry remembered how often James teased his mother that she should be in Ravenclaw for her cleverness, which, he thought, could be considered a back-handed insult – after all, didn't it imply that Gryffindor had no place for brains in it?

Harry wanted to tell that but fear kept him silent. No sense in worsening their relationship if his parents took it the wrong way.

"This is a close-minded point of view fostered by the Ministry in the last few decades. Not all of Hogwarts history was that skewed towards this type of prejudice."

"Were there others?"

"Of course. Believe it or not, at one point people disdained Gryffindor."

"Uncle Reg told me about it, I think. It was at the height of pureblood culture, when self-control meant everything and even new-borns were embroiled in politics."

"Matters still stand as such in certain circles. You should know."

_Is he talking about Uncle Reg naming me his heir? If yes, why is a ghost even interested in such things?_

"Yeah, I do." Harry wavered before inhaling and staring up at the ghost. He couldn't quite place the expression on the man's face - a mix between quite curiosity and... triumph? "I'd like to ask you for a favour."

The Baron smirked and stepped forwards, right through Harry. Cold and rot washed through the boy. He wanted a shower. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to turn around as the ghost leaned on the wall, a part of his body fading through.

"See? I was right about your double motives," the Slytherin ghost drawled. "I do love being so. This already puts me in a good enough mood for negotiations."

"Good enough for free secret-sharing?"

"I'm not that easy, child."

"Right. So, my friend and I want to practise some magic." Harry generously left out the dubious nature of such magic, but judging by the gleam in the Baron's eyes, he suspected it already. "Do you know any place where we can do it without being accosted by the teachers or Filch?"

Or worse. Headmaster Dumbledore. Not that Harry didn't like the man – he was pleasant enough and lemon sherbet was delicious! – but even thinking about casting Dark Magic around the wizard shamed him somehow. Then again, what would you expect from a Light Lord?

"And why would I tell you even if I knew of such a place?"

"Um… because you're a nice person and want to make people happy?"

The Bloody Baron coughed out what had once been throaty laughter. Harry cringed. This somehow reminded him of Tom, that one time he had made the Slytherin boy hack like a dying kitten- er, laugh.

"I gave up on making people happy centuries ago. A human is a creature that is never satisfied with anything."

"Can't agree with you. All people are different."

_This guy is definitely Tom's relative somewhere down the line_ , Harry thought irritably.

"Same at their core. For instance, everyone is selfish and remembers others only when they need something from them."

"Not true-"

"Oh? And how often did you come to see me before you decided to take from me the information you are incapable of finding anywhere else?"

Harry flushed yet again.

"Indeed." The Baron tapped his chin musingly. Harry wondered if the ghost was capable of feeling its own body. Come to think of it, what would happen if two ghosts came in contact with each other? Would they simply pass through? Would they bump? Would the universe explode?

Not for the first time Harry wondered at how few books about ghosts there existed. Oh, you could find the most basic of information easily enough, in any DADA schoolbook, in any journal, in any guidebook for muggleborns. You could also find sensational unscientific trash. But Harry barely heard of actual studies conducted to puzzle out ghosts. People accepted them as part of their daily lives and moved on.

Harry refused to be such a person.

_Not to mention, it would be nice to have a project of my own. Not a task hoisted onto me by Uncle Reg, not a Charms Club project imposed by Professor Flitwick, not an objective to reach together with Tom. Something mine and mine alone._

Of course, he also kept his magic-seeing ability to himself as well. It wouldn't do for people to treat him in a special – not necessarily positively – way.

Some people might enjoy extra attention but Harry didn't. Not unless it came from the people he adored.

"I'm sorry for not coming to see you," he mumbled, his head bent so low he was muttering into the loose high collar of his robe. "I did think about you. Really, I did. It's just that… Tom was angry with me – well, he was angry with Snape but he behaved like such a wanker it was easy to make a mistake! – so I didn't want to come down to the dungeons at all. And then we were busy brushing up on Dark Magic together, so…"

He stared into the stones beneath his feet and only twitched when he glimpsed an aura approach him out of the corner of his eye.

"I find your honesty rather endearing," the ghost began slowly. "If not dangerous."

"How can honesty be dangerous? It doesn't really hurt anyone. Unless you use the 'I'm just being honest' card to insult someone; then you're just an arsehole."

Harry despised people who dumped their negativity and sadism on somebody in the form of an 'opinion' and, when the other person got rightfully pissed off, backtracked into the 'well, that's the truth! You can't get angry at the truth!' mode.

"Oh, there are many ways to weaponise it. Despite the claims that we are a house of liars, there have been many outstanding and honest Slytherins." A predatory smile. "But they sharpened their truths accordingly, of course. With you, I mean that your brand of honesty is first and foremost dangerous to yourself."

This time, it was Uncle Reg's voice pouring those words into his mind. Harry wondered if he should just set them up - Tom and Regulus and the Baron - for a playdate and step aside to watch the world burn in cynicism and lies.

He straightened his shoulders, the way his father taught him to face enemies and troublesome allies alike in one of their rare snatches of time together.

"It's a danger I can face."

The Bloody Baron smiled, no open teeth. Just secrecy and quiet danger.

"Time will show. For now, let's see if I can be agreeable to a deal." The ghost swiped a finger across the dust on a painting's frame. It didn't pick up.

"What, no freebies, after all?"

"Not in this case, no. It will remain an open favour on your side." The Slytherin strolled back to Harry, who stepped back. He didn't fancy another rot bath, thank you very much. "When the time comes and I need your help, I will ask it of you."

The boy snorted.

"Please. An open favour is even more dangerous than my honesty. You could ask literally for anything."

The Baron's face fell, as if in disappointment. Harry, meanwhile, didn't understand how someone could look that graceful while pouting of all things.

"We will make a vow, both to ensure that you uphold your side of the deal and that I receive the rightful compensation. The vow would include a clause about the equality of the favour I provide you and the payment. In your case, I would be able to ask for something like aiding me in locating an item or negotiations."

"This sounds too fair to be trusted," Harry accused.

The Baron smiled, razor-sharp this time. Stepped even closer. Like wind blowing dust from a grave onto the boy's face. "Do you agree?"

Harry hesitated.

But of course, in the end, there could be nothing but-

"Yes."

As soon as the words slipped from his lips, he saw magic. It twirled and weaved itself into a chain, wrapping around both of them and settling on their wrists, a manacle. The skin on that wrist tingled.

"You can see it," the ghost whispered.

Harry flinched away, wide-eyed.

"How did you-"

"-know?" the Baron finished for him. His lips quirked. "I told you last time. You do not become a ghost without a secret, and some have acquired a vaster collection by our deathtime."

"Will you tell anyone?"

Harry couldn't stop that tremble in his voice.

"What would I gain from it? Everyone who matters already knows."

Harry paled.

"What do you mean, 'everyone who matters'? Why would-"

A finger landed on his lower lip. Coldness pierced through it, and Harry shuddered. The Baron spoke, his voice a caress, a lingering touch that shut down protests.

"I believe we were talking about secret places. Do you know that there is a corridor on the third floor?"

* * *

The first thought that entered Tom's mind when he stepped into the Headmaster's office was: "I want to steal everything here and pick it apart".

Which, granted, wasn't particularly commendable, but at least Tom would have done it in the spirit of scientific discovery. That ought to count for something, right?

_Considering how eccentric this man is, I wouldn't be surprised if he laughed it off, beamed, and told me to go on._

That said, Tom didn't take his eyes off Albus Dumbledore. No Slytherin ever did.

He remembered their first meeting, how the old man had been atrocious back then. Dressed in a garish yellow-purple costume, with his long hair and beard he had traumatised the matron – the only thing Tom was grateful for – and driven the boy mad with his smiles and twinkles.

Tom didn't trust people who smiled too much. Sometimes they tended to look like they were easy to deceive but turned out to be frightfully perceptive.

Tom was a simple guy. What he saw, he liked to get.

"Mr Riddle," the elderly Headmaster greeted Tom. He wasn't sitting behind the desk but standing near a porch on which a flaming red bird perched and crooned. "So happy to see you here. Are the decorations to your liking? Hagrid and Sinistra have outdone themselves this year!"

The former was an oaf Tom despised and the latter was their batty old Astronomy professor who was strict when it came to checking their knowledge but not as strict when it came to checking her own – she sometimes made mistakes on charts and in calculations, and never apologised for them. He didn't care about their sense of style. He put on a polite smile anyway.

"The Great Hall looks stunning, sir," Tom said. At a gesture from the Headmaster, he lowered himself into a chair that adjusted itself to his height. The Slytherin immediately wondered what incantations the old man used. "The feast was enjoyable as well."

Could he wheedle the spells out of Professor Flitwick during the next Charms Club meeting?

"Glad that you think so." Dumbledore turned around and walked to his own chair. "Here, have some lemon sherbet. Not as good as the feast, but wonderfully delicious anyway." After Tom politely refused, he shook his head and went on, "You don't know what you're missing out on, my boy. Now, I believe that the purpose of your visit was something other than expressing your opinion on ornaments and tasting a sweet?"

"You are right, sir." Tom smiled one of the smiles he had carefully prepared the other evening, just for this occasion. The perfect mix of timid, grateful, and amazed, with the tiny jot of mischief Gryffindors adored so much. He couldn't help but think that ths was a type of smile Harry could give, then hit himself for thinking about his classmate's smiles at all. "The purpose of my visit actually has to do with something that takes place in several months… Namely, the summer holidays, sir."

The Headmaster tinkered with a strange construction of small coloured triangles, tubes, and hanging symbols, paying visibly zero attention to Tom's words.

The boy's nails scratched the armrests.

_Why do I have to waste my charm on this?_

"Oh, Tom- Do you mind if I call you Tom? Never mind the old man, do go on. I'm listening." The headmaster raised his eyes and tapped his temple with a beaming smile. "My mind still allows me to multi-task."

"I hope you make use of all these years that you have left before senility kicks in," Tom said with a sweet smile.

Well, it wasn't particularly smooth - or charming - but something in the man just rubbed him the wrong way.

_If alternate universes existed, he'd definitely be my archnemesis who spoiled my entire life and ruined all my plans,_ thought Tom, eying the Headmaster's smile suspiciously.

To his surprise and irritation, the old man only chuckled.

"They'll teach me to be humble, your words." He stopped and leaned back in his seat. "Now, my boy, what bring you here? I trust that everything goes well and Slytherins don't bring you any trouble."

"Why would they bring me trouble, sir?" Tom feigned confusion. "It's a House that's always praised House loyalty, and you can't be very loyal if you trouble your own."

As if anyone would dare torment him.

Okay, maybe aside from Malfoy sometimes. And Zabini. And Nott wasn't respectful enough, not for Tom's tastes. And Tracey Davis, although he hardly ever talked with her, was a nasty and horrendous girl, while Pansy Parkinson could strike home with a single remark in such a way that even Tom's heart would pang-

Dumbledore looked at him, eyes rife with sadness. Tom's hands trembled, itched to wipe that look. If the man wanted to help, he could prove it with his actions, not worthless pity.

"I understand how... difficult life may be for students with a background like yours in the magical world. Slytherin especially lodes its ancestors and archaic ways. We can all observe the end result. The system is rotten to the core and benefits only purebloods."

The old man adopted a lecturing tone, lecturing  _him_ of all people, and Tom's blood boiled. He looked down, at the threads in the thickly-woven rug, at his second-hand shoes that didn't fit the grandness of the Slytherin common room.

Tom's smile was as thin as a slit in a wrist. "I believe that unlike you, sir, I have the chance to understand it first hand. You don't have to lecture me and emphasise it."

Rumours were that Dumbledore was a halfblood. While not the ideal variant, it was a status that allowed for a comfortable life and plenty of privileges. It wasn't Dumbledore's place to talk to him, a - Tom mentally spat and sneered and blazed with fury - muggleborn, about rotten systems.

The Headmaster seemed to understand. He drew back and quirked his lips in an apologetic grin, the apology further pronouned in the dancing blue sparks in his eyes.

"Pardon me, I never meant to act as if I were living the same circumstances as you, my boy."

"Nevertheless, you've managed rather well anyway." Tom kept his voice and tone respectful. Words, spiteful. "Another thing you're still capable of before senility?"

Irritation surged when, once again, the man beamed instead of frowning, as if he found Tom amusing rather than cutting, impressive, and witty. Tom hated it. He felt small and childish, immature. Being a child was the worst, a most vulnerable state.

"Sometimes I forget how entertaining conversations with my Slytherin students are. Now, Mr Riddle, I have no cause to be worried about you in your House. You seem very capable of taking care of yourself."

And while this was indeed true, Tom wondered why Dumbledore wouldn't put more of an effort to help muggle-raised students in the Slytherin House if he knew all its intricacies and prejudices so well. After all, while Tom was indeed strong and needed no one, some weaklings got sorted, too. And, to an outsider, they would look perfectly content, too, because Slytherin didn't forgive whinging and spilling the intro-House business. So, it was up to the Headmaster and the teachers to reach out to the students, simply because a student would never be able to complain lest they end up even more tormented and ostracised, and called weak to boot.

Tom wanted, almost burnt with the need to ask this tricky question and watch the Headmaster's eyes dim but he remembered himself. He came for something else.

He decided to start from afar, and touch upon another question he had wanted to ask.

"Why is it that students who stay at Hogwarts don't require to state their reasons for remaining at school?"

Dumbledore blinked in surprise.

"Why, that would be an intrusion into their privacy, of course."

"But aren't there students whose home life... might not be the best? This could be the only chance for you to know the truth about them, one of the few opportunities to catch something suspicious."

Tom didn't consider himself in this category, of course, since he needed no help. He would take what he wanted himself. However, abuse was something people were generally interested in knowing about - or so it seemed from some books and conversations - which made him wonder why there wasn't done more to prevent it.

The Headmaster sighed heavily.

"I get where you come from, Tom." The boy jerked. So far, only Harry called him by name. He didn't like the sound of it rolling off the Headmaster's lips. He made it sound too common. When Harry said it, he felt special and powerful, the way he should feel. "But this happens rarely, and mostly in magical families that hide their secrets anyway. The majority of students have happy home lives, especially in Gryffindor and Hufflepuff."

The Headmaster smiled, and Tom wanted to both strangle him and ask him many questions.

"And you are only interested in the majority, right?"

The old man ignored his question.

"-Yet, this doesn't truly concern you, does it, Tom?" Seemed like 'Tom' was there to stay. The boy almost trembled with rage; remembered the great amount of other Toms out there and the fact that Dumbledore could be talking to any of them. "Actually, I wondered why you stayed at Hogwarts at all for the holiday. Your orphanage looked lovely." A smile morphed into a frown. "Although your behaviour left much to be desired."

A pointed look. Tom stiffened.

"You burnt my wardrobe, sir," he accused. It hadn't been real, true, but did the Headmaster realise how terrified he had been of losing all his belongings? The fear had been real. "Just because of a couple things I did that might be questionable! This is beyond unfair, especially for a teacher. You should be ashamed of your teaching skills."

"Well, it seems like I'm receiving a great amount of compliments today," Dumbledore muttered. "Almost as many as when I have the pleasure of meeting Lucius Malfoy."

Tom tossed his head up and glowered from underneath the heavy eyelids. Yes. Disconcert the Headmaster - and then attack.

His whole face changed. A construction of another persona in motion, the slipping on of another mask - everything going smoothly, as ifTom were destined for this, as if Salazar Slytherin's cunning returned to life in him. Tom fleetingly wondered how great it would be if he were indeed connected to the great Founder not only by House but by genes.

"I admit that I... committed some mistakes when I was younger," Tom began, his voice catching in the middle. He kept his eyes dry, though - never overplaying. Dumbledore swam a lot among political slime, and Slytherin lies, and deception. He would know what a fake looked like. "I'm ashamed of some actions I did - I never should have stolen, for once, then you wouldn't burn my wardrobe," he quickly added, knowing that this remark would sound natural; no Slytherin one hundred per cent repentant, after all.

He ignored the Headmaster's comment of "My boy, it was only an illusion! I didn't burn anything!"

Illusion or not, it had scared him stiff. Tom honestly believed that Dumbledore had to overhaul his teaching method. Maybe someone appointed him Headmaster because they couldn't sack him and thought that he would do less harm if kept far, far away from a living, breathing student.

"But some of them happened because I was set up by other children," he continued. "I... the life in the orphanage is lonely, sir." Here he allowed some shine in his eyes. Clenched his fists. Breathed hard. "Please don't spread this around but... The other children... they didn'tlike me," he whispered.

Dumbledore looked at him, and the portraits looked at him, and all of them judged, but Tom sat unwavering and sorrowful, a beautiful flower among the thorns.

He couldn't read the Headmaster's eyes.

"They did things to me - and yes, sometimes I did things to them, I'm sure Mrs Cole told you-" He cut himself off and allowed a quick glance in the Headmaster's direction. "Not everything she must have told you is true, of course, but still. The orphanage is a place that holds no fond memories for me. I'ts lonely, and cold, and-"

And there was no magic there.

Tom remembered the Trace and his summer dipped in even darker colours.

"Oh, Tom." The Headmaster reached out a hand to lay it on Tom's shoulder, leaning over the desk. "Is there anything I can do to lift your burden? If it is withing my power, I am ready to offer it with hands wide open."

Tom stifled a smile. It was working! See? He wasn't a child. He was a Slytherin, a liar and a manipulator. Not all these things were synonyms, but they were impressive and gave him power. Many things less valuable than power over the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"Yes, sir," he told him softly and slowly raised his head. "I mean- It might be presumptuous but- May I stay at Hogwarts for the summer, sir?"

The hand slid off Tom's shoulder, and Tom knew.

Rage sizzled in his brain, overtook his thoughts.

He didn't need to look at the old man to know that he was shaking his head.

"I'm afraid not, Tom." Dumbledore's voice should never be so  _gentle_ when he was ruining Tom's plans and wrecking the boy's dreams. Archnemesis indeed. "Hogwarts is closed for the summer."

Desperation. It clawed his chest, and Tom... He almost couldn't breathe. Something hazy drifted before his eyes, and it was as if he were looking through a veil, with noise clogging his ear, and suddently he didn't have to pretend. Lies fell away and left only the truth, the truth of longing, and the truth of loneliness, and the truth of wanting a home.

He didn't need a person but everyone needed a place they could call home.

"I could help you!" fell from his lips. Tom's eyes widened and he wondered how words slipped from his control. He didn't regain it. "I'm good at everything I put my hand to, and I'm sure I would be useful to you. Just-"

He wanted to shout "Just please, let me stay!" Wanted to beg and cry, wanted to wail and scream, but his pride kept him there, in place, and the words didn't come. He looked straight into the Headmaster's eyes and knew they wouldn't come.

Hatred burnt in his veins, caressed his belly and his soul.

He didn't know where the desperation came from. Wasn't he the strongest at the orphanage, the most amazing and powerful, the most feared? Didn't everyone slink off in terror when he came into the room?

But somehow it didn't seem enough anymore.

He was reaching for something else, something very close, dangling in front of his eyes, and here the Headmaster was, taking everything away-!

He had simply disliked the Headmaster before. Now he abhorred him.

Perhaps his feelings wrote themselves into his eyes, because the old man's face changed, morphed into a statue of a war god with its frowns and ancient wisdom. Its pure calculation. Dumbledore hurried to explain himself.

"It is not that I don't want you here, Tom," he said in a gentle voice that burnt fiercer than hatred. He took Tom's hand in his palm, wrinkled but so strong compared to Tom's frail fist. Tom saw it shaking and willed it to stop. "However, it is against the rules to allow a student in the building during holidays, not least because of ward maintenance, exorcising ghosts, cleaning up the Forbidden Forest, and a variety of other actions that must be taken each year. I hope you won't hold it against this old man." Dumbledore smiled. "Here, take this box of lemon drops." He summoned an intricately decorated package. "Usually, I am too stingy to share whole boxes, but just for you I shall make an exception. Merry Christmas, Tom!"

Tom wiped away the anger and the longing. What use did it have to feel them? No, his feelings had to be as practical as his actions.

He smiled and took the offered present.

"Thank you, sir. Don't worry, it's a disappointment, but nothing I won't survive." He hesitated before adding bashfully. "I'm sorry I don't have any present for you."

"You being happy on this day is already a present for me, Tom."

Tom laughed and exited the room.

The burning in his veins never once stopped.

* * *

"It's so strange to see the dorms so empty, isn't it?" Harry asked Michael Corner as both boys lazily dressed themselves for the day. Everyone else went home, Anthony Goldstein with a happy smile and a threat to send him at least a card, Terry Boot with a large grin and exclamations that he would finally get to play Quidditch, Stephen Cornfoot with a sullen look because he would be made to look after his numerous siblings yet again and could he please hide away at school until seven years were over?

Michael only hummed in response, trying to find a clean sock in a pile by his bed.

"Is there a spell to create socks out of thin air?" he grumbled when he didn't find a washed pair and resigned to wearing mismatched ones. Harry wondered what his clean-freak mother would say to that.

"Well, there are conjurations - McGonagall will teach us if we take Advanced transfiguration. Oh, and you can look through old books to see whether there is a spell for socks. I don't doubt it, though, spells can be terribly specific."

"Tell me about it. I've found a spell when preparing my project for Flitwick's Club which basically levitated a potato into someone's mouth to shut them up."

Harry resolved to dig up that spell. A grin tugged his lips when he imagined Tom's reaction when he threw that thing at him.

"Oh, you're already preparing your project?" he asked aloud. "Lucky bastard, I've got no idea where even to start!"

Harry only knew that he was definitely going to beat Tom. The Slytherin's face would be priceless. almost as good as with a potato sticking out of his mouth.

"Well, I've had a couple of ideas..." Corner hedged before making a show of rummaging around in his drawers, this time for a clean undershirt.

"Care to share?"

Corner shook his head hurriedly, a suspicious eye glancing at him from beneath the untidy fringe.

"Later. Maybe." He shut his drawer with a bang.

Not for the first time, Harry noticed how closed off and greedy Ravenclaws were about their projects, or even sharing knowledge in general. The only exceptions were Su and Anthony, and only sometimes. McDougal, Entwhistle, an Turpin mostly kept to themselves, sometimes inviting Padma or Stephen. Terry spent most of his time deep in Quidditch stuff, researching the history of the game and the trivia; he was the person who could immediately tell you the names of all the Quidditch teams in British history.

Of course they talked, they discussed classes and the like, sometimes made allusions to what they were studying in free time... but each of them guarded what interested them most.

Harry was the same. No soul knew about his magic sight, and even his interest in ghosts toned down. That's not even mentioning his other pursuits. Speaking of which...

Harry heard Corner tumbling to the bathroom and neared his pile of presents, a light smile on his lips. Sunlight streaming through the latticed tower windows played beautifully upon the covers, bringing out the sparkles and the shine of the wrapping paper and decorated boxes, most of them in disarray after he opened them.

The best present, of course, was given by Uncle Regulus. A present and response to Harry's innocent and totally hypothetical question of ' _How do I break into a professor's office? Asking for a friend_ '. His mentor responded with ' _Hypothetically, your friend could use an artefact allowing you to slip through wards. Here is a sample, charged for four times of use_ '. There was a silver chain bracelet attached, which Harry hurried to put on. He had an amazing uncle.

He left the assortment of other gifts for later - mostly sweets, pastries, parchment and ink sets, books, healing potions, greeting cards, clothes, knicknacks. Sirius prepared an ornate lantern with a mirage of fairies dancing around a bean-sized vial with a phoenix tear inside. Ridiculously flashy and expensive... but useful. So much like the man.

Harry hoped his own presents were well-received as well. He had already sent out everything... except for one.

He couldn't keep a smile off his face when he thought about his Slytherin friend.

Tom.

He tucked the gift into his bag, caressing the bright red cover that Tom would definitely find obnoxious and scoff at, which was why he had chosen it.

It was a diary, similar to his, except the cover was a sheer obsidian black to Harry's dark grey, and the illuminated letters read 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' in a lovely cursive. Harry adored diaries like this - all types of stationery, actually - and hoped it would cheer Tom up. He had also ordered a bag of chocolates from Honedukes, even though there would be plenty of sweets at the Feast.

He decided to come to the Great Hall early, since his friend claimed he had some business to attend to in the morning, so he bumped into Hagrid dragging a huge Yule tree and Professor Flitwick.

"Ah, Mr Potter!" the little man exclaimed. He paused in the middle of casting decoration charms, and his wand emitted sparks as he waved it up and down. "Up early, I see! So typical of one of my Ravenclaws!"

"Good morning, Professor Flitwick!" Harry greeted brightly. "Are you in the middle of casting?"

Stupid question,. Of course he was. Harry looked around curiously. There were some nice adornments across the ceiling, and the teachers all bustled around the place as Hagrid set up the tree. Professor McGonagall was transfiguring some of the armours into a merrier version, adding flares and lace to the metal, while Professor Sprout was murmuring to several smaller firs, encouraging them to grow right in front of Harry's eyes. He figured they were magical firs, since they grew tiny crystal-like particles that glistened under the frosty chandelier.

"Would you like to help me?" Professor Flitwick offered. Harry blinked and flushed.

"I- I don't think I would be of any help to you, Professor," the boy mumbled, "although, of course, I'd love to."

"You have incredible talent, Mr Potter." The little man waved his wand distractedly at a fixture on the wall, making it stand upright. "Actually, this year I've really lucked out with my Charms Club students. You, Mr Riddle, and Miss Granger are among the best Ive taught in a while."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

"Have you ever cast hoaring charms?" At Harry's shake of head Professor Flitwick continued. "Well, they're very, very easy. All you have to do is say the spell and direct your wand like this-" He took Harry's hand in his to show the process. "And it's all done! Here, try!"

"What do I have to cast it on?"

Professor Flitwick pointed to one of the painting frames. "This year's theme is frost, so everything is going to be covered in it."

"Aren't the paintings going to mind?" Harry asked, dubiously staring at the woman in the painting whose pursed lips clearly showed how much she appreciated all the Yule preparations.

"Of course we do!" she hissed.

"Of course they won't!" Professor Flitwick exclaimed cheerfully and cast a Silencio on the woman when she wanted to speak up against it.

"All right, I'll try," Harry muttered, still with a doubting grimace.

He hoped the painting would understand if he ended up blowing away its frame instead.

He cast the spell.

A blinding flash - and nothing.

Professor Flitwick stared at the frame. The woman inside leaned back, utterly unimpressed with everything.

"Well, even though there is no visible result, I can still see traces of your incantation."

"Traces?"

"Yes. When you've cast magic for long enough, once you have researched enough, you may reach levels when you can read auras and see magic."

Harry's heart thumped in his chest.

It was... exactly what he did.

"You can see magic in people?" he almost whispered.

"People? Oh no, this is almost unheard of. But objects, oh, yes!"

Could... Harry do that, too? And where could he learn it?

"Who else can do this?"

Professor Flitwick lowered his voice, albeit its pitch didn't go away entirely. "Necromancers can. Their art is closely connected with souls, and according to some theories, souls are tied with magic in wizards and witches."

"I never would have thought!"

Where was he supposed to find a Necromancer to teach him?

"So, now if I observe the results of your spell-casting with my sight that came to me from hard-boiled experience, I can clearly see the traces of your casting. It means that your spell did work but was too weak to manifest fully. I would advise you to put a bit more force behind the spell."

"It's a bit of a problem," Harry admitted. "I used to put too much and had to get rid of that problem, but now I'm putting in too little."

"Don't worry, it's something that comes from practice. Now, try again!"

Harry mentally apologised as he stared into the painting's eyes, and pronounced the incantation again. This time, the blinding flash didn't appear. In its stead, a bluish veneer coated the golden frame.

"Wow!"

"Very good, Mr Potter!" Profesor Flitwick beamed. "Three points to Ravenclaw! Now, you can return to the common room, sit here and watch the preparations, or help me."

"I'll help!" Harry piped up immediately. It would help him pass the time before Tom appeared.

"Very good! Here, let's try this frame - spells aren't as repelled by wooden frames as they're by metal ones."

* * *

"Why are you so gloomy?" Harry asked Tom the second they met. "It's Yule! Time for cheer and love!"

Tom's gloom turned to horror as he watched him.

"If you're going to be this merry, please don't bother talking to me today."

The Slytherin boy didn't move or run away, though (Harry didn't give him the chance) so the Ravenclaw decided he could just as well hug him - I'm not a teddy bear, Potter! - But you're as cuddly as one! - before thrusting his present into Tom's face.

"What's this?" Tom frowned. "Have you decided to give me a Dark artefact that kills me as soon as I rip off the wrapping paper because you're tired of being beaten by me in Charms? Actually, being beaten by me in everything because we all know you don't hold a candle to my genius."

Harry rolled his eyes. If he weren't so tired after spending the whole morning casting charms - mostly levitation and frost - he knew he would have said something. As it was, he only dropped, "Just open it already - and oh, do you really think I would waste a Dark artefact on you? They're damn expensive! It's not like you go down the street and see a Dark artefact and go, 'Oh, here it lies around, I might just as well take it home'! I would choose a much cheaper way to dispose of you if I wanted to."

Tom wasn't listening to him. Tom was neatly unwraping the paper. Tom was staring at the diary he uncovered.

The Slytherin's mouth slacked a little. He looked... lost.

"Why... are you giving me this?"

A soft voice.

Harry's heart jumped and slugged in sadness. To think that Tom reacted like this, that he had never been given a present before-

"It's a gift," Harry said gently. He stretched his hands and covered Tom's, rubbed them tenderly, hoping to make up for the tenderness Tom probably hadn't received earlier in his life. "I have a diary myself-" He didn't tell that his diary was used to store blackmail material; no need to give Tom ideas. "-and you seem like a person who would appreciate something like this, too."

"I don't have anything for you," Tom deadpanned after a pause. Harry rolled his eyes again. Ugh, dealing with Tom, such a pain.

"I knew I wouldn't have anything in return when I chose to buy it for you," he told him patiently. "But I still wanted to give you a present. It's fair that at least someone does."

Well, Professor Flitwick probably sent Tom some sugar quills as well, and Tom had told Harry once that they received Christmas presents at the orphanage, but this was likly the first present Tom ever got from a friend.

"You're strange," Tom whispered.

Harry's mouth opened and shut as he stared with wide eyes at  _that_ guy.

"Look who's talking. Now, do you want to see that ritual or not?"

* * *

"Hurry, hurry," the Ravenclaw urged him as Tom and he rushed to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "We've already missed the most interesting part because of your business."

Tom scowled at the reminder of Dumbledore. Yet another person with a black mark against him. He dreaded the list of people to take revenge on, how it would grow once Hogwarts education came to an end if it was already so long.

"Why didn't come here yourself if you wanted to be there so much?" he bit out.

Harry stumbled and looked at him. Tom refused to sweep that stubborn curl that got into the boy's sparkling eyes, shielding them from him. He preferred to look straight into the pools of verdant green for some reason. His gaze dropped to the ghost of freckles on the Ravenclaw's nose and cheeks, and he scowled more. It wasn't normal to notice such things, he was certain.

"I wanted to show you everything," he spoke softly, and Tom's heart soared, and his soul lit up into a fire brighter than the snow drifting around them. "I wanted to share your first magical Yule with you. Should I have gone without you?"

His voice rang with uncertainty. An unfamiliar feeling stifled Tom. No, he didn't want Harry to go without him at all. Did't want him to share this day with someone else, one of those pesky friends Harry insisted on surrounding himself with day in day out. Friends like the fiery-haired Weasley, or the inept fool Longbottom, or the smirking bastard Zabini, or, recently, that aloof Patil girl, the one of the blue-bronze House. She hardly responded to Harry, he noticed, and yet the boy spoke with her too often and too brightly.

Tom wondered why he kept track of all those people who kept talking to Potter.

_It's because he's my ally,_ he reasoned.  _And he knows certain facts about me. I need to keep track of his movements so that I see signs of treason. I must never allow him to betray my secrets._

Yes, seemed like a worthy cause.

Relieved, Tom responded with "Do whatever you want, you are deluded if you think that I care" in an almost kind voice.

"The way you show your love for me strikes me right in the heart," Harry told him dryly and dragged Tom further.

Despite the caustic tone, Harry held his hand gently, and Tom could feel the warmth seeping through the gloves.

They entered the Forest, and it differed from the one they had seen at the beginning of the term. Tom almost expected silver bloodprints staining the mounds of snow, but they walked a trail of untouched white. The gaps between the trees were flush with sunshine and birds singing, so unlike the last time, when they had answered the unicorn's call.

"What about the centaurs? Will they let us pass?" Tom asked dubiously, fingering his wand. It tingled in response.

This time, he wouldn't be as helpless. He may lose control, yes, but his enemies would be incapacitated anyway.

"Only today, yes. As long as we keep to the trail - don't you feel it?" Harry turned sharply to Tom, his breath lingering as a puff. "The Light leading us to its centre?"

"The only thing I feel is cold," Tom snapped. And a hand in his. A flutter in his stomach. "Next time I see Flitwick, I am going to demand that he teach us an actual heating charm."

A glass jar with bluebell flames hid under his coat, and the winter cloak was warm, but Tom preferred stifling heat to even the barest hints of coolness.

Harry looked unsympathetic to his plight.

"I feel like nothing will ever make you feel warm enough anyway," he muttered. "Anyway, it's your bad, then. Seems like you really do need me as my guide."

"Be thankful I find a use for you."

"Your gratitude is so heartwarming."

A curtain of trees slid away and revealed a clearing, snow-covered despite a tureen of fire burning in the middle. Its pale flames licked the leafless boughs, and its sparks danced around the clearing, landing on a couple of laughing girls in warm-looking headscarves and a Slytherin student Tom recognised.

"This is the most sacred place today for any Light being in the vicinity," Harry murmured and inhaled deeply, as if sensing something Tom didn't. His eyes snapped open and he looked around, in wonder and in awe, in respect and admiration.

Tom looked but he saw snow, and fire, and students who came for a piece of fairy tale.

"Come," Harry- actually ordered (!) Tom, beckoning him towards the flames. The Slytherin generously disregarded the tone just this once. Harry's hand leaked warmth, which was never enough in Tom's opinion, and if Tom told him off, Harry would respond negatively and try to quarrel - he was weird like that, refusing Tom's demands... and it's not like Tom could quarrel effectively with someone while holding their hand. He wasn't an expert on emotions, but it looked sort of counter-productive.

"What do we have to do for the ritual?" Tom asked him. The closer they got, the more feelings woke and rose in him, and he itched to get away. They were not aggressive nor negative. They were pleasant.

Tom detested it.

He had always leaned towards the powerful, the mysterious, the strangest, and the Darkest. He felt at home in the lies and intrigues of the snake house, he enjoyed and appreciated the subtle beauty of poison-making as revealed in snatches of Zabini's conversation, he revelled in the readings on mind-magic and manipulation, on minds breaking and hearts changing, on souls fracturing with murder.

He wasn't supposed to shiver with pleasure from the flickers of light dancing on his skin, to lean towards the brightest sparks, to thrum with magic dancing and singing to the tune as crystal as the summer sky reflected in the lake.

"There are many rituals you can conduct during this time," Harry started, and his voice quivered as if folding under the burden of ancient history. "For witches and wizards Yule has always been a festival of light, truth, fire, and new insights. A new year, a new point of view. The reparation of bonds, too, sometimes."

"This isn't what the books say about Light magic," Tom told him with a frown, his mind whirring to discover any discrepancies in his reading.

"There are many definitions of Light Magic... just like there are many definitions of Dark Magic. For instance, did you know that in Greece mental arts are actually considered Light, when they are the epitome of the Dark here in England? Legilimency and Occlumency originated there, were first categorised and researched as separate branches there, and are part of the curriculum. Sometimes..."

Harry hesitated and looked at Tom. The curl got into his eye again, and this time Tom couldn't stand it. His hand stretched out and removed it. The Slytherin nodded to himself. He liked things clean and neat and he would keep Harry's face clean and neat, too, because that's how their friendship was going to work.

Harry blinked. Smiled. Continued more confidently, probably mistaking Tom's care for his own aesthetics as care for what he had to say. Tom saw no reason to point out the mistake.

"Sometimes I feel like it is us, witches and wizards, who divide magic into Dark and Light."

Tom snorted.

"This is obvious. I have only been formally part of the magical world for a short while but even I can already see that. The Ministry decides what magic is allowed, and which is not-"

"No, I mean- Yeah, of course, you get the Ministry definitons." Harry screwed his face up. "But then you have people devoting themselves to Light and Dark, and betraying that allegiance, and there are real consequences for that. However, I feel like it is our minds that need this division and the magic only listens to us and humours us... and punishes us for the treason to our chosen type because we ourselves believe that we should be punished." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Just touch the flame, Tom. I know you already believe that you're Dark even though you're so young, but touch the flame and tell me you don't feel at peace."

Tom did.

He wanted to protest. He remembered the whisper of power, how good it felt, even the loss of control, and wanted to laugh because how could he ever want to give that up?

But Harry's voice compelled him, and his hand reached against his will, and the fire licked his skin, and the fire... didn't burn him.

For the barest of moments, happiness engulfed him.

Cleanness, contentment, the kind you enhale when you press your nose into washed cotton after a long bath. He sensed the truth in Harry's words, and felt something pass between them because Harry joined his hand in the white flames, and Tom warmed up. Snowflakes touched them. The wind blustered despite the repelling wards. Yet none of that bothered Tom.

The memory of his treasure box back at the orphanage poped into his mind.

If he still had it, he would put this moment into it as well. It was a day that made Tom realise that some scenes, some moments came and went, and were lost forever, and the emotions he experienced came and went with them. His mother's memory had been one of those, an insight he could never bury in his mind, a reminder at the back of his head that he was a mere side effect, never loved enough to be the centre of someone's life, of someone's ideal.

This was another, a more positive note.

It passed, of course. Good moments always did.

A second of absolute truth and happiness - but then he was again a boy who had to go back to the orphanage in the summer, whose control over Dark magic slipped sometimes, whose Head of House refused to teach him, and at whom even Light purebloods glanced condescendingly from the corners of their eyes.

"You are an idiot," he told Harry curtly, wrang his hand away, pushed away the lingering warmth, and gave himself away to the cold and bit into him after the instance of absolute heat.

They bickered the walk back. Tom pretended it was all a waste of time but inside he knew...

That moment would never be erased from his memory. A second of absolute light.

* * *

The moment that came after the feast would never be forgotten either, since it set Tom on a path of personal discovery that wouldn't be finished for a while and would only end in tears, pain, and madness, and not all of them were his.

"There is another thing I want to show you," Harry whispered and clutched Tom by the sleeve just as the Slytherin was about to return to the dorm. Tom wondered if he should take a look at some dog-training books to see if there was a way to train Harry out of that nasty habit. Strangely, he never seemed to summon the will to actually act upon his wishes. "It's part of your Yule present."

Tom stared expectantly.

"It's not a thing," Harry added, understanding Tom's silence. "It's a place. Somewhere to practice... to plot. I promised to help you with your revenge."

Tom wondered if Harry knew what he was signing up for.

If he didn't...

Well, it was Tom's task to convince him. Or force him to stay if Harry was going to run.

"I'm not really sure how safe it's gonna be," Harry warned him as Tom followed him down the corridor. "I was told there hasn't been anyone there in decades. Oh, and there is a trapdoor involved. Good thing Professor Flitwick taught us all those unlocking spells, eh? You can always count on your Charms teacher to teach you breaking and entering!"

"Who told you about this place? Aren't you worried they might intrude or blabber?"

"Oh, they won't. They don't usually talk to people... they're not even alive!" Harry exclaimed cheerfully before remembering himself, wincing, and hunching his shoulders.

"So, we're going to visit a place that has been abandoned for decades, where there is a trapdoor, where no one knows we are going... and your source is dead? Sounds fantastic. Get me the sign-up sheets right now."

A sense of déjà vu crept up on Tom. Did friendship really imply getting into these situations? Tom had read a book on it once, after Harry introduced the concept to him, and it definitely hadn't mentioned  _this_. He was going to sue that author.

"This is put very pessimistically, Tom. I'm pretty sure everything's gonna be all right!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dumbledore. Please note this isn't a bashing story. He's not evil in this fic. He isn't even that important, actually. However, in this chapter we see him from Tom's POV and he's understandably biased even though Albus' reasons for not letting Tom stay are actually valid (it's not like there's a war in the muggle world and Tom's orphanage really isn't as bad as the 40's one, so Tom's request actually IS inappropriate here... not that my heart doesn't go out to the poor boy).
> 
> \- Muggle wank. Since I received a comment on it somewhere in the previous chapters, I'm going to say it now: worry not, because I hate it with a passion! Like, seriously, I love technology and progress in real life but I don't want it anywhere near the stories I read. I'm here for magic. MW is actually one of my biggest pet peeves, so while I might mention muggle world and even, rarely, compare them, please know that I'm a sword-over-gun sort of girl. It's never my intention to imply that magical world should be transformed into our real world, since I consider them fundamentally different, and I'm sorry if it comes across like that!
> 
> \- We've got only a couple of chapters to go until summer, yay! And I love the summer arc. Also, I somehow like this chapter? The reason I've been sitting on it for so long is that I thought it was totally no-good, but now I'm feeling a bit stupid and guilty because it doesn't look that horrible to me (or does it? please let me know!).
> 
> \- Please check out my Tomarry Big Bang story! It's titled The Librarian, and is a dimension-travel AU where, at the train station, Harry decides to time-travel but life (coughAlbuscough) happens and he ends up in a dimension where Tom's become the Headmaster. The librarian vacancy is conveniently open - RIP Madame Pince - so Harry decides to keep his enemy closer. Really closer. But being a Master of the library is different, and Tom sucks at the whole Headmaster business, so Harry decides to take reins. Features mentor!headmaster!Tom, Harry trained in magic, seer!Ron, library activities, Harry counselling people (hint: he's as good at it as Tom at being the Headmaster), and freaky books.


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